


Thy Kingdom Come

by Haili_Ner



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-26
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 25,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24395413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Haili_Ner/pseuds/Haili_Ner
Summary: Before the ruin of a kingdom's end, there was a dream of a world unlike any had ever seen before. What had it taken for such a thing to rise? What had it taken for such a thing to fall?
Relationships: The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 46





	1. The First

It comes to him in whispers, followed swiftly by dreams:

_Leave the weak behind to fall, the decaying land awaits._

It comes to him in murmurs, drifting lazily in the breeze:

_The broken and tormented are strong, they will bring the light upon the ashes upon the darkened sea._

It comes to him in howls, the screams of the dying mixed in with the pleads.

_A beacon to be built, a rose of glass amidst the stone. A kingdom to last eternal—_

The last kingdom of the world.

\----------------

It was only after he arrived that the whispers fell silent, and all that was left broke open to reveal the cold air. The Old Wyrm shivered as he emerged from the egg, vulnerable in this weak state. This new body, though constructed through soul and flesh for specific purpose, was a great change from what he had experienced before. No longer was the murmuring breeze a gentle wind, but a howling gale that swept all around. No longer was the dirt soft and warm, but hard and unyielding to his very presence. But most importantly now, instead of blind sound, he could _see_.

And what a departure it was from the Sight! Brightness and darkness, shades of all kinds were to be differentiated from each other. Hints of color suffused the landscape, present in the creatures hopping, flying, walking around. He took care to avoid these, of course, but this new sense was nothing short of incredible. The Wyrm seemed to exude color himself—a gentle white, not unlike the clouds neverending he once felt while burrowing out of a mountain. Or perhaps the snow that fell at the edges of the world—he had heard as much from a past wyrm who had transformed long ago. Idly, the King-to-be wondered, what else had this new world to offer?

A husk, large in its stature and dead long before he had burrowed in from lands beyond. In its hands, it held a nail—a metal thing, carefully polished and still gleaming white. To say that the Pale thing fell in love would be an understatement. The craftsmanship of such a tool, the way the metal gleamed to reflect his light! The intricate patterns etched into the steel were unlike almost anything else found in nature, possible only through the mastery of a true craftsman. The Wyrm picked it up as lightly as possible, hoping to study it later, as the weight of the nail surprised him. It was hard and cold, heavy for its size. The White One released a chuckle at the realization. Of course it would be heavy, it would have almost been a disappointment had it not been! Understanding it better now, he slung it over his shoulder without a moment’s notice. Though almost his height, it would be quite beneficial to examine later—perhaps create more, if possible. 

The Pale Thing wandered west, encountering several more corpses (and the occasional creature) on the way. He eventually had found a multitude of weapons: An iron needle, brittle from age; a club, fashioned from the tooth of a giant’s maw; a claw, bone marrow leaking from its cracked spine; and even a lance, still stained fresh from the blood of its enemies and its holder. None had charmed him quite like the nail had. Nevertheless, the Wyrm encountered little to no danger on his journey.

That isn’t to say there weren’t any hostile creatures, of course. Hoppers and aspids came up to him, almost endearing in how reliably they attempted to attack him. Of course, all they needed was a spark of soul to fall, but it was easy practice for his magic. The Wyrm even managed to conjure a couple of nails to throw at them, precise in their movements and accurate to where he had sent them. He even swung the one he had found once or twice, even if the weight had left him slightly unbalanced. No matter. He could simply craft a better one once he settled.

The climb up into the cavern was no climb at all. He hadn’t even needed to test out his wings. It was a simple matter of calling forth soul to build him a bridge of the same iron of the needle—an easier metal to manipulate, if not quite as beautiful. The Pale Thing looked back at it as he entered the cave. Not quite the image he had hoped to create, it was nothing more than a set of blocky, silver steps. But again, that was no matter. He dissipated the spell back into himself and stepped inside.

The cavern the passageway opened up to was massive. The White Wyrm set his gaze about him, measuring the walls and floor, calculating its exact parameters. Its area could have held three coils, each set reasonably apart for a resting wyrm with its height was as tall as a mountain come to rest. Why, if he could just start the corner, it was possible that he could lay himself out halfway without brushing against a stalagmite. It seemed a perfect resting place, a perfect nest. But he was no longer the giant being he once was, was he? No, six wings imbued into his cloak and a body as small as a grubling wyrm’s eye ensured his body’s divorce from his past form. But his magic? No longer spread throughout miles and miles of tail, it condensed into his being so fully there was hardly an outlet from which it could even escape save for light. And even then, he was newly hatched—his control in this form was not yet absolute, and with growth in control came growth in magnitude. This, and the caverns before him, spoke of potential untold.

Potential untold… His mind set to work.

On the far end of the cavern there was a fungal wall, spongy to touch. On the other, a thick wall several lengths thick before forming a tunnel that led to the cliffs behind. The rock was sturdy; if excavated, one could create a large room for travelers to arrive. That is, if any could find their way from there.

Above him, the ceiling was shrouded in mist, and light drops fell all around him. Such porous rock would need reinforcement from time to time, lest the rain become worse and the source flood whatever he created here. It also spoke of countless stalactites and stalagmites. Perhaps he could use that in his favor? But ah, the fungal wall. It absorbed the moisture and may require a different approach altogether.

Skittering, from behind him. The Wyrm turned, but not with haste—his mind was still half-clouded with his wonderings. There was little else that required his attention anyway. But when the skitterer moved closer, trying to touch him, the Wyrm flared his light in a blinding display of power. The bug fell back, dazed. The Wyrm gazed down at it with disdain. It was still stained and burnt from its last meal, a bit of aspid still in its hand. And it tried to touch him.

He let out a sigh, no, no this would not do. His foresight had promised him a kingdom of his own creation, a land of the strong and full of wonders. And a kingdom needed subjects. He could no longer expect to stay as solitary as he once was and still expect to be a king.

His light dimmed as the bug blinked—perhaps it would think it was getting used to his light.

“Get up,” the Wyrm ordered. This creature will be the first of many. “Get up and speak, I wish to know more of this land and those that inhabit it.”

The bug hesitated, dark blue eyes still blinking away the remnants of the flash. “I… You… Huh?” it fumbled.

“Evidently you still need time to adjust. No matter, simply tell me of yourself and I will be able to extrapolate the basis of your features to the rest of the creatures.”

“My...Myself?”

“Yes, yes, yourself. You will find it easier to speak as time goes on, I assure you.”

“So bright…”

This was getting nowhere. Still, the Wyrm did not want to spend even longer searching for a new bug. Perhaps a little spark could help things along?

The bug didn’t even notice what the Wyrm gave him at first. Perhaps it thought it as a sudden clarity? Or energy? He would find out eventually, if need be.

“...Myself, yes. Yes? Yes! I will tell you about myself. Myself is—No. No? I. I is—am—Goron. I am Goron. Sor...Sorry. Never good at word. Wordes.”

“That is no matter, what are you? What is your diet? Are you male? Female? What features define your species? What temperatures, what qualities define your habitat? Do you worship anything? What numbers do you estimate your species to be?”

Goron stared at him blankly. The Wyrm could practically see the gears in his mind turning. Perhaps another spark. And repetition.

“Tell me the diet, living conditions, sex, rarity, and worship of yourself and those like you.”

Brightness came to Goron’s eyes, “Ah! I am Goron. I eat bugs—iny ones, one that can’t talk. ‘Those like me’... are...Oh! Others. Other sentry bugs. Males are like me. Females have wings. More horns mean more powerful. Males get bigger, females hunt for larger prey.”

“And your society?”

“Socie… Yes! Families and friends! Worship ancestors, we do, but once was something else.”

“What happened to that ‘something else’?”

“Dunno. It gave us Sentry name, but no one knows anymore. The elders say it was when we left to down here that we forgot?”

A group of bugs, godless, likely leaderless, and none too bright if little Goron here was to be demonstrative of the population. Or perhaps the species was just bad at communication. Regardless, they were a perfect group to become his citizens.

But first, a choice.

“Goron,” The Pale One said, “How would you like to be a little smarter?”

“Smart? Like the elders?”

“Well, not quite. Your intelli—your ‘smartness’ would be entirely your own, it would be unfair to compare it to bugs I do not know. And in terms of knowledge, nothing would change at all.”

“Oh.”

“But still, you will be smart. You will simply be able to find patterns in things you never noticed before. You will be able to look at the world around you and dream of things the eyes cannot see. You may even find yourself saying ‘At last, I understand!’. Do you wish for this?”

Goron bowed his head, looking away. “I don’t know. Let me ask the elders, they’ll say what is best.”

“No Goron, this must be something you decide. But I can see that something within you is suspicious—and rightfully so at that. Such an offer out of nowhere asks for something, you just don’t know what. Is that correct?”

He nodded.

“So it would be best if I told you what I wanted first, and then if you accept it, you would also decide on your choice?”

Again, he nodded, looking uneasy.

The Wyrm sighed, “I know it may feel like I am controlling your train of thought and your mind does not like it, but once it is expanded you will be able to see past such things. I am trying to offer you your own choice after all. Perhaps if you beheld the full covenant...

The bug was silent.

The Pale thing set his gaze on the other, willing for him to look him in the eyes. He needed to understand this fully to make a choice. “Goron, look at me. You must understand that should you accept me, I will want everything.”

The little bug looked up at that. That small bit of shock—that was the crack from which the King would take him.

“Yes, everything. I want everything from you. You will give me your friends, your family, your elders. You will give me your life, your death, your hope. You will serve me, and be ruled by me. And in return? Goron, in return I will give you Mind and Soul. A view freed from its current confines and the power to supply it.

“But what does that matter to a single bug when all his family is demanded? What does the candle of selfishness have to the hearth of altruism? What will happen when you give me your people in exchange for a mind?

“Well, you need not worry. Nothing will happen. Nothing else, save for the same choice I am offering you. Accept me Goron. Serve me, and I will serve you as King.”

“But… why-”

“Why would I have a need for others? It is simple. I am building a kingdom, Goron. I will construct a wonder out of metal, glass, and stone that none has ever seen. I will transform this water into rain, I will transform this ground to a road, I will transform this cavern into a city of tears for you and your people. And you will help me. I have seen it through my foresight. All that matters now is your choice. Accept me, and this future will be what you choose.”

A silence was held as the sentry pondered over his words. It seemed to ripple over him, like the rain dripping into puddles. “...My name,” he muttered.

“Pardon?”

“Why keep mentioning my name?”

The Pale One tilted his head, “Because it is your choice, is it not? Not your elders’, not your mate’s, not your friends’. It is yours.”

Another pause, but it was only to shake off his last reserves of hesitance. “I choose you,” he said in a small voice. 

The Pale King bowed his head, “And so you have.”

The sparks of soul surrounded him, and before long, Goron was enveloped. 

It was over in a moment.

“Ah,” the sentry said, “I see at last.”


	2. The Fungal Grove

_Death. Decay. Poison._

_With its noxious fumes, the extant wall grows evermore feeding, feeding, feeding until all that had once died has been consumed. The passing of the age has long passed, the last kingdom stands fallen._

The Pale King blinked as the Sight faded. The fungal wall stank of death, its spores and noxious fumes threatening further spread into the cavern. It would need to be dealt with if the wyrm wanted to expand. Wearily, he cast a glance about him. Sentry bugs all around, awed at his light or industriously working at the last task he had given them. Doubtless, once a steady food source was provided, the population was sure to grow. Not to mention, there would be more bugs to join once time passes—he will not be known as King of the Sentries after all. No, if he was to build his kingdom, he would need to take control of the neighboring area and people as soon as possible. 

An opening, near the ceiling.

His wings flared open for the first time, instincts he had crafted already taking hold in his mind. With a flash of light he took off, stunning his subjects and ensuring his flight was solitary. He did not want to deal with multiple creatures at a time, after all. They would be annoying. They might get hurt under his watch. They might ruin this developing diplomacy. 

A pathway further west. The yellow spores only increased in density with sickening sounds of squelching as the king pursued the center of this madness. A bug of two lifeforms under his flight, shaking with struggling. One of the minds was overtaking the other. Tears fell down its eyes as its limbs scratched at the dirt, mushrooms emerging from the cracks in its shell.

But it was not one of his citizens. Though he ached to study the fungus, he only spared a glance at the bug before continuing on his way. He would have killed it as a mercy, but with so little information about these lifeforms, he could not know if he would insult the beings he wished to speak to. No, better to rein in his attacks until they were required. 

Furthermore, these wastes were a maze. A village of mantises lays claim to the deeper parts, strong and clear-eyed. From a glance he could tell they were isolated by choice and resolved to speak to them after his task was finished. They clearly were not the masters of this environment. A canyon of mist and acid lay furthest to the west. Its acid held countless creatures of strange form, ones that reminded him of a distant memory where a salty taste lingered, a world formed beyond the edge of another. And though he only stole a moment to look beyond, green hints of dreams pervaded the space, signaling the start of a new being’s territory. He would need to return later.

Eventually the wyrm made it into the core of the Wastes. Sensing the intelligence of another, he willed his body clean from the taint of spores and sap. He battled carefully now, a shroomal warrior and shaman skewered the instant he detected hostility. The enemies only increased from there. Explosions threatened above him. Ogres threatened below. A warrior, more experienced than the others, faced him with a squadron at its back. Balloon-like creatures floated slowly behind him, as if he wouldn’t notice.

They must have thought him foolish. Or weak, perhaps. Well, no matter. If it was a show of strength that was required, then the Wyrm would gladly oblige. 

Nails of soul and metal fanned into being, each one finding a target in the mass of creatures around him. Quickly, another wave came forth with the sound of whispers. And another. Again, another. But the Wyrm did not simply throw them into the fray. No, once the opening blades were buried into the weak and vulnerable, he sought the flaws in each creature’s design. Here, a fragile body. Popped without effort. There, a strong cap. Shredded from underneath. An explosion imminent? Caught and sent back to its originator. All these creatures—hey were small. Weak. And they were nothing beside him.

A flare of dreams cut into his magic, yellow as the spores surrounding him. The light warmth, still on his tongue, urged him to retaliate: to rip, to tear, to consume all that is beneath him with only a single snap of his jaws—

Ah. But therein laid his plight. He was no longer so large. Even his mouth was small, barely distinct from his shell. The Pale King drew himself back from the madness of battle, composed, looking to those that still drew breath.

There were none left, save a warrior pinned, and yet shielded, by a larger shroom. Its head rested against a conjured nail, slowly disappearing. Perhaps it was lucky enough to dodge it. Perhaps the bloodlust had clouded his mind enough to affect his accuracy. Nevertheless, the King acknowledged the summons, traveling deeper into the wastes.

_A giant slept before him, a sleep eternal in a pool of acid. Once an ally, perhaps a friend. Something had tak-take- SH-E-_

It would do no good to reveal such premonitions to a higher being he had yet to meet. The Pale King willed his magic to his hands, draining it from his foresight. Instead, he crafted them into two nails, bright and pure. Perhaps the being would see it as a threat. It would not be too remiss in believing so.

He arrived in only a moment, pace hasted by the lack of creatures challenging him. An overview of the giant before him brought the Sight to the forefront of his mind, a millisecond of shock for how soon it had come to pass. Or had it? The thought was a mistake only a fool should have made, and the being who caught it clearly made it known.

“So it has foresight,” it said, “Perhaps a wyrm gone too far from its burrow?”

“A former wyrm,” said the Pale One, “Now a king fated to rule over these lands. Who are you to threaten my nest so?”

“Your nest?” It questioned, all but ignoring his own. “Why, who are you to claim a nest at all? And why are We to threaten it?” 

“Must you insist on such trivialities? It does not matter what you believe at all, for I have foreseen what is to come. I am the Pale King, and I lay claim to these caverns of holy ground, soon to rise into the kingdom eternal. But you. You threaten my burgeoning kingdom. I’ve seen the wall, I know your nature. And I will not let you consume my subjects for the death beneath them.”

“The death beneath…” the giant mused. Nevertheless, it continued to speak. “Let it be known, Pale King, that the Herald has only recently come to pass. You cannot begrudge my children for the nourishment the end of an age offers. We will feed as we wish, nothing more, nothing less.”

“Nothing more, save for the times an unlucky soul has fallen into your spores. How many husks have you carved out, replacing individuals for another cell in your hive? Just as I entered these wastes, I saw one, still struggling in its fight. I did not interfere, for that is not the way between us yet, but I cannot trust you to do the same for me.”

There was silence for a moment. The King continued, “Do you see? You are searching through the eyes of countless minds you already have, searching for that one that has seen me, but still, you cannot find it. There are too many. You cannot ask me to trust my subjects to the will of yours. Nevertheless, I do not wish to fight. If peace is a possible answer, then I will be happy to negotiate.”

An amused chuckled, “Yes, it is so. But you who come in here, slaughtering my children, and that bloodlust stirring in your veins? All that was required to stir it was a simple attack from one fearful shroomling. One easily ignored even if it had fallen upon your shell. And yet you slaughtered Us all, no mercy to be found until after the taste of sap faded from your tongue. I am afraid that We cannot trust you either, you who claim to want for a peaceful resolution.”

“What would you have me do then?”

“Let us be. Let us feed.”

And the King shook his head, nails and wings flaring, “I just said I cannot let you do that! My citizens will not become sustenance simply for your lack of control.”

“Lack of control!” It scoffed, “What control could I impose on Us in the first place? We are a mind, single and whole yet individual in its parts. We do not care for control. I may look ruler to you, Pale King, but I am not a ruler. I simply cannot be. Not while I am one amongst the Mind.”

The King’s gaze was sharp, “Then allow me to become your King!”

And for once, the Mind was silent. A ripple of shock passed over all who were listening within. The giant was quiet.

Then it muttered to itself, “You wish… to rule Us?”

“I will protect and guide my subjects. I will be the light in the darkness to guide them. Through me, the land will reach an era of prosperity never before seen, never before known. That is the fate for all those under my rule… But you do not care for that, do you?”

The giant hummed. “No, it is not. Even from your previous words, it is plain that their prosperity directly contradicts Our own.”

“But ah!” The King said, “You forget. You will be among these numbers. The whole of you. Prosperity to you has nothing to do with advancement, beauty, or wealth! No, it is life that you require. Life to produce death, and lives to be secured.

“Your lives will be secured, Fungal Kingdom. I offer to you my prescience, my own mind and knowledge whenever it aims to benefit your Kingdom, your people. Simply accept me, accept my rule, and neither shall be a parasite upon the other.”

The giant thought, discussing it with countless others within the Mind. But the Pale King already knew their answer, foresight or not.

There was a deep sigh from the mushroom. “Let it be known that though Our Mind stands divided and not without doubt, We have come to a decision. Warily, We shall accept the Pale Wyrm’s rule. May its prescience guide Us.” How had he ever thought of her as giant? 

“So I shall,” the Pale King replied. 

He opened his mind to the mushroom before him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the "mushrooms are an extant form of life" meme. And as for higher beings—it's hard trying to figure out what they are from the game itself, I have half a mind to define everything that's bigger than the Pure Vessel as one. Nevertheless, we'll see how it goes. 
> 
> Let me know if there's anything I should improve and thank you for reading.
> 
> Best,  
> Haili


	3. Return and the Ancient Basin

After washing himself with water purified of acid, the Pale King finally returned to his city-in-construction, landing softly on a ledge. His citizens noticed him immediately. “My king, my king!” They chattered, surrounding the White Wyrm and reaching towards him, worry in every movement. “Where had you gone? My king! Your robes! A tunnel! My king!”

The Wyrm swiftly turned and forced a nail’s point in the crack of another bug’s shell as it attempted to grab his wings, possibly to dry them out, or possibly just to touch him. “Do not presume yourself yet familiar enough to touch me, Adria,” he said, plucking the name out of her mind. “Now step away before you are made an example of.”

She, along with the rest of the bugs, took a step back, allowing the Pale Thing room to breathe. “Excellent,” he commented, “Now one of you—and only one! Tell me what has transpired in my absence. It has only been a week, building efforts should not have been impacted.”

He cast his gaze amid the crowd as they shuffled about between each other. Several new species had joined, even if they numbered few amongst the sentries. Some were completely plain and indistinguishable from a common beetle while others had a singular, long horn. They were the few that were completely enthralled by his light, rather than awed like the rest of the crowd that have seemed to adapted to his image. Nevertheless, their minds called out to him, and though already filled from his sparks leaping from others, he sensed potential in a few.

He called out to one of the few still working, even in his presence. “You,” he said, “What is your name?”

The bug in question nearly dropped his tools as he looked at the king. “M-Me?”

“Yes, what is your name?”

“M-M-Mend-” It was like Goron all over again. The Pale king wasted no time in walking closer, expanding the bug’s mind in an effort to make him speak faster. “Menderbug, sir.”

“Menderbug? Is that your personal name?”

“Personal?”

“Nevermind that, you will think of one soon enough. Now tell me, what has transpired in the last week? Or at least at the time of your arrival here.”

“Oh! Uh…you’re the... The ruler the sentries said flew off into the fungal grove? Um… We-uh… I came here with the other menderbugs when we heard there w-was building to do. Some strangers came with us.”

“And the accommodations are acceptable to your kind?”

“...There’s a lot of food and houses?”

The Pale King nodded, “Good, then obey our laws and accept me as king and you may count yourselves among the subjects of our domain. We have a great need for builders, and can ensure ample assignments for you and the generations to come.”

“Oh, that-that would be amazing! I-”

“Adria!” He called, turning away from the bug. “Redeem yourself and tell us of this tunnel found.”

A winged sentry bug, freshly cowed, came before him and knelt. “Sire, we’ve found a tunnel that leads down quite a ways, and through a couple of exploring parties, it’s been determined that there are roads and caverns built down there. We are unsure if it is inhabited, and fear that these may be a threat. Humbly, we ask that you engage this new development with us.”

“You are well-spoken,” the King commented. Adria glanced at him in surprise before looking down once more. The King nodded in response, “I will enter this area alone come day, once everyone is asleep. You may all expect our final judgments in the night to come. Meanwhile, Adria? You have done well. Direct some capable sentries to guard the tunnel before and during this expedition. Your service will be rewarded.”

“Thank you, my king.”

“Good, you are dismissed.”

Finally, The White Wyrm raised his head to view all the bugs staring at him, taking in his announcements. He needed not to say anything as he glared at them all, many of them suddenly “remembering” the jobs they still had to do. The menderbugs was still hard at work, their works showcasing much better quality than one might have expected. After a round about the cavern and a few well-placed directions here and there, the Pale King was satisfied with the current state of their efforts and retreated into one the large husk shells to continue his designs.

Day came quickly enough, and with it, his promise. He felt the slight warming of the earth deep within himself, and though he was loath to pause in his sketches and calculations, the wellbeing of his subjects mattered more. He exited the shell as the majority of bugs retreated into makeshift houses and villages, passing by the menderbugs still eagerly at work (bugs after his own heart) and a few others almost as dedicated as he was in shaping their new home. 

Adria and her sentries bowed as he passed, blue eyes closing. Smart, it allowed them to see better when all the worklights were covered. The Pale King felt pride as he entered the tunnel. It would truly be a great kingdom indeed.

All that faded, however, as the darkness grew and the floor sloped gently down. The Pale King descended into the black, the only source of light was his own reflected off the walls. He felt the texture of the air and ground more than he saw, and heard the reflection of his breath giving shape to the passageway rather than felt. The slope was gentle, but it grew steeper with every step. It wasn’t long before the King nearly slid straight into the unknown, his wings being the only thing that saved him. And still deeper he went. The walls were lined with spikes like teeth, eventually covering every surface like the throat of an ancient beast, one such as he. It stretched and curled, possibly even doubling back once or twice, with little motes so dark even his light wouldn’t reflect off them freed with each movement. 

Was this what it was like to be eaten? The Old Wyrm couldn’t help the thought from rising, insatiable curiosity closely following. Why was the tunnel here, so full of spikes it could have shredded a lower, less careful bug? Was it a trap, made for the ones above? Why was it so dark? Granted, the King had only gained sight of the present kind after his transformation, but such darkness was not something one could almost touch. Where did these little motes come from? Why was the ground so smooth earlier in the journey, almost like a road? And though the confines of a small space comforted him in its familiarity, how long was this tunnel in the first place?

Scarcely had he even finished his last thought before the passageway opened up to reveal a cavern of epic proportions, almost comparable to the cradle of the city above. 

_A beacon—to light, to guide, to illuminate the eternal kingdom of minds expanded. For research, for devotion, for fair bargains kept._

_A rose—its vines, its twisted sheets of metal and sculptures of steel, five pure nails as sharp as thorns. Or are there more, darkened and hiding just beneath?_

_A throne—a light enclosed within the dark, enclosed within the light, enclosed within the dark, enclosed within the light, enclosed within…_

The dark was only a fog to the Wyrm’s knowing eyes. Here, upon the decaying road of stone shaped from stone, of the ashes of a race that once shaped the cavern so, and for the civilization-to-be above; here, the White Palace would lie. 

But those black motes…

It was a simple matter to find their origin. One only had to observe the majority of them originating from the ground, and to follow the pathways lower and lower into the absolute nadir.

As the Pale King looked into the abyss for the first time, he saw nothing. The well ran deep, and void stained the very air in which he breathed. But the White Wyrm was not intrigued. Seeing the thing gave a much duller answer than he expected, especially with the nature of this substance and its lack of an avatar. The void could not stand a lumen of his light, and the King expended no effort in removing its stains from the hem of his robes. What a boring result.

To a creature of the future, what use was remorse?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's interesting how the colors in Hollow Knight are tied to significant concepts in the world. There's white for soul, black/void for regret (or death?), green for moss, blue for lifeblood (health?), and red for nightmare (or decay). Orange, though for the infection, seems to be tied in with memory, and whenever we see a variant of yellow or gold, it's linked to unity or some sort of hive mind (i.e. the Hive, the Fungal Wastes, Godseeker, Radiance). Maybe it was this emphasis on light and color that inspired Team Cherry to focus SilkSong on sound. 
> 
> Either way, travelers are now wandering into Hallownest and integrating themselves into the kingdom. There aren't any great stories to be told yet, but seeing bugs move with purpose promises the same to those still looking for one, and if that is under a king then all the more power to him. Not to mention, most of the citizens are nocturnal, like most bugs according to my small pool of knowledge. Circadian rhythm and temperature for the win when you can't rely on the sun for timekeeping.
> 
> The Pale King also entered the Palace Grounds through what would become the stagway to the Hidden Station. The last kingdom that worshipped the darkness has long since decayed, so it's about time new light came to shine on its rocks.
> 
> A question for tags: If the original characters only feature for a chapter or two, do I still tag it? Should I tag places also?
> 
> Hope everyone's doing alright in these crazy times.  
> -Haili


	4. The White Lady

Rarely was there ever a crisis that demanded his attention. Whether of mind, populus, or soul, there were plenty among his subjects that are more than capable of solving minor problems. Nevertheless, when a runner brought a message detailing the situation directly to him rather than his delegates, chimes of warning seemed to ring in his head.

_To His Majesty, the King of Hallownest._

_Herein lies confirmation of the interloper found roaming Kingdom’s Edge. Five knights with diplomatic experience have been dispatched, as per protocol for newly discovered higher beings. Only one has returned._

_When the knight arrived, her mind was addled and her body would not cease in trembling. She spoke about a dazzling light, mesmerizing if gazed upon for only a second. The being seemed to be in hiding, she reports, and though she only survived to glance for only a moment, the being’s appearance is hardly one to be missed. At the time of writing, the knight has slipped into an almost trance-like state. I’ve recorded the gist of her mutterings below._

_“Those blue eyes… The pale roots… We trusted her light... She wishes to drag us all down into the Earth…”  
Apologies to His Majesty, for the guard humbly requests his intervention in the matter._

_Praise unto you, dear King_  
Ovin  
Captain of the Guard 

Undoubtedly, this was not the first attempt of the Guard to tame this interloper. The stone was smooth, almost dented in places where the captain had written and rewritten the letter, over and over. The age of its cut was fairly old despite the carvings having aged by only a day, and the whole thing stank of desperation. Captain Ovin knew better, of course, than to disturb his king for trivialities while the caverns were being shaped. That was why he was appointed after all.

Nevertheless, the Pale King let his servant reclaim the stone before moving on. The mention of pale light troubled him. And beyond that thought, what kind of a ruler would he be if he could not defend his kingdom’s borders? The architecture could continue without him—best to have some faith in his subjects and leave some of the architecture to his bugs.

\----------------

The creature was found in a cave half-buried by the ash of his decaying body, sitting in an almost tranquil state. Its eyes were closed, roots curling in every direction possible. Around her grew roots and ferns and flowers of unparalleled beauty, doubtlessly due to the soul-infused bodies ground into the dirt. There was no trace of metal and barely of any of stone—a bland, distasteful place that asked for no interest, no constructs, no art. The King glided forward, drawing his power around himself and noting that yes, her light was indeed pale. A puzzle to be sure, one he could not wait to vivisect. 

Well, only if it came to that, of course.

“So the Old One has decided to grace me with his presence,” the interloper said, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he replied, “So long as this meeting proceeds without incident.”

“And should it not?”

The Pale King paced before her, only distantly recognizing the challenge in her words. “Well, let’s hope it should not come to that.”

The Root hummed, “Indeed, though one should know that idle implications bear no weight to reality. Though awaited, for what has the Old One come?”

“Is it not obvious? You’ve attacked my knights and trespassed on my lands. You wallow in this cave, fabricated only through a vestige of a past age and threaten my kingdom’s subjects—possibly the kingdom itself. What else would a king do but rise to their service?”

“A king? Or simply a deteriorating mind?”

“Deteriorating? Mind your tongue, Root. Do not test me.”

The being peered at him, ferns curling. “Of inborn knowledge, those of higher birth understand that there is a state of being unachievable by the common bug. And yet, through this kingdom you attempt to imitate this, perhaps even produce others such as you and I. However dear king, though your use of soul is clever, it is hardly a tried and tested method. Once taken away from its source, the mind given will fail. One does not need Sight to see this.”

The Pale King peered at her eyes. A brilliant blue, reflective in its sheen. They gazed blankly at him, though neglected to twitch as he moved. It was likely that she barely relied on them at all, favoring her roots entwined with the earth instead. Several questions arose but the Wyrm pushed them aside. Now was not the time for curiosity. 

“Yet through the Sight, I am known to have succeeded in these endeavors, with appropriate precautions well underway. To offer disdain based on this false reasoning would be nothing short of foolishness. Perhaps if you realized, you could join us in thi—”

“You mistake me, Old One. I do not believe that such is not possible. I simply don’t believe it is worth a higher being’s time. A kingdom enthralled is more than sufficient enough, so why this insistence on choice and individuality? A hive does not impact sapience, and though yellow in nature, it should not taint one’s pale light if a people were his desire. These lower beings… Though a king, he treats them nearly as of equal make.”

Though slightly insulted, the Pale King wondered about her worldview. She talked as if interaction with others were nothing but an idle pastime, nothing for them to offer but praise and worship. Perhaps she was newly realized, or isolated for as long as he had been alive. She reminded him of himself (when other wyrms still roamed) too much for comfort. Was she able to understand? Could she understand? Nevertheless, he glared. “Ironic, that the one entombed in the ashes of a being so much greater utters, ‘Of equal make,’ before the being himself. Yes, a king am I, so let us suppose that such a dream is nothing but erroneous judgment. Could one still claim the title of kingship over a mind that is wholly a reflection of himself? Even with individual sapience, one would lack the security of freely chosen servitude, and not a single bug would cherish being under my rule. What kind of a kingdom is that? Where are the wonders, the pride, the curiosity and joy in this scenario? Why would I want that? And you, who have already been warned once for her words, do not do so again.”

“And should this warning be disregarded?”

The King’s magic hummed in anticipation. He could almost feel his jaws opening wide, wide, wider to swallow this pathetic thing whole. Perhaps it would be a vivisection after all. “Then you shall face the might of Wyrm.”

Ah, but what a loss of mind—it would almost be an utter waste if he could not learn what he could. If such a way were possible to preserve it, would the root agree? Just how long had she—no. Again, it was not the time for curiosity. Wasn’t it? 

She was silent for a moment, an eye peering at him from the side, refusing to look at him directly. And then she laughed. A giggling, tinkling laugh like glass bells that did not suit her at all. What a strange reaction. Her blue eyes rose to meet him, “The might of Wyrm? The power of one’s old decrepit corpse? Or perhaps of the swords and sparks you conjure in place of teeth? No _Little_ One, the might of Wyrm is not something I am able to fear. Your metal rusts in my presence. Your sparks are consumed into the lumaflies so attracted by these flowers. And what use if your quickness and flight to an enemy that does not need to dodge? I am your opposite, your counterpart, Old One. You should not expect a foe so easily defeated.”

Of course she ignored him. But counterpart? Anger should have risen. His pride should have been inflamed, his magic sparking! But by his nature, nothing came. Instead, the word stuck out to him, a hint to the puzzle so easily gained. One would not make a claim so flippantly without belief in its truth. His interest grew, and before he knew it he could no longer resist. 

“Counterpart?” He echoed, “How so, and for what? Do you claim to be my opposite? Or perhaps a like creature? How have you come to be here? Were you created at the same time as I? Why have you come here? Why now? And how had you come to this conclusion of nature? When did—”

Her roots shrunk back ever so slightly from the shock of his words. “What a strange—of all the possible responses, rather than showing your might, of combating all my declarations, you attack with a hundred questions instead. You truly are a fool. Where are your teeth, oh ‘Wyrm’?”

The White Wyrm idly summoned his nails, static sparks dancing along the surface. He let them fan into being behind him, failing to touch the ground or to stir the air as to prevent the Root from sensing it. With a single snap, they flew towards their targets, stopping only a millimeter away from pricking their intended. 

One to the foot of her seat. Another to her eyes. A crown of nails to match the crown of thorns around her. A single one to the back of the head. He tilted his head as the creature flexed her roots around her. “If I falsely acquiesce to your claims of my impotence, will you provide the answers I desire?”

But true to her word, the metal rusted upon contact. The nail to her head disintegrated completely, falling to dust to the earth to the roots below. She watched them all with curious interest, not a slip of fear to be found. 

“Perhaps you will no longer doubt the veracity of my statements, now,” she said.

“That does not change the fact that you would have been skewered if not for my restraint.”

“I would not have, the metal returns to dirt too quickly,” she replied. Almost smugly, if the Wyrm was correct.

Nevertheless, the King was tired of waiting for her non-answers. “Well disregard it all, then! Do you accept the offer, my lies in exchange for the answers to my questions?”

“Lies still? You are ridiculous!” She said. Was that mirth or disbelief escaping her? Probably a mixture, it was always hard to tell.

“Good, then as my counterpart, you will be serious and answer accordingly.”

She laughed, and the sound did not strike him as unpleasant as before. “Leave, Foolish One. There is little wonder why I am the way I am if this is who you are.”

“Yes yes, but pray tell, what does that mean? I have yet to receive an answer.”

“Leave. My patience will grow thin before too long.”

“That is impossible, for as my counterpart, you should know that there is none more impatient than I in the world here or beyond.”

Another laugh, no reply. Perhaps he would try another day, if only to get the answers he was owed.

“Pale Root, I will order my subjects away from this place and grant you pardon for the lives you have taken if only for permission to return once more.”

“I do not care for your people or pardons—but what possesses you to request permission from a being such as I? You did not arrive with such notions, nor did the knights you first sent.”

“Perhaps I prefer verbal sparring to physical.”

A slight tilt of the head, “Ah, perhaps there is something we can agree on.”

“Perhaps I was lying,” the Pale King replied just as quickly as he turned away, unwilling to let her see her words transform his countenance. 

A voice behind him, “My permission is granted nonetheless. For your sake, do not abuse my trust.”

“Then should it come to it, do not betray mine either.”

_A pale root, a pale throne, and a pale cradle singing a lullaby near._

_It is a song of regret._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the Pale King finally meets the White Lady. I tried to show how territorial Higher Beings can be in this chapter, especially since the giant mushroom basically just rolled over in Chapter 2, but still wanted them to get along by the end of it. Essentially, PK's curiosity got the best of him, and when his impression changed from "trying to intimidate away" to "what this? What's that?", it disarmed the Root. The whole thing about her being his counterpart is just a headcanon, considering how the Wyrm is "King of Buzzsaws and Spikes" while the Root has a whole garden the size of Greenpath. One seemed to take responsibility for the kingdom to the most extreme level while the other was hands-off, retreating instead of fighting. They seem like opposites to me, though once their union is set, their personalities may begin to bleed into the other's as a result. And no, she does not like giving answers, mystery being counter to curiosity and all.
> 
> As for the bugs of Hallownest, there's a guard now. The knights sent were pretty basic—definitely not the Five Great Knights of legend. We haven't even met them, much less gone through the Champion's Call yet. Still, their society is developing. Pretty soon, different classes will emerge. Not yet, but soon, should the society allow for it. More travelers are steadily pouring in, and some time has passed. All these weak, albeit smart and industrious, bugs bunched up together may soon attract some unwanted attention.
> 
> Off-topic, I want to recommend a short story: "The Ones Who Walk Away from Omelas" by Ursula Le Guin. If the original plan had succeeded, the Pure Vessel could have very well been the suffering child of Omelas. It's an interesting line of thought to pursue, and it's a really good short.
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter,  
> -Haili


	5. The Mantis Treaty

_Dances atop strings of silk. Quaking from a creature burrowing just beneath. Teeth and blood and claws and needles—an invasion is imminent, and there are no lances to stop it._

The King awoke from his slumber with a tense neck, magic already coalescing into a halo of nails around him. Though his temper was aroused, the King slowly stood from the nest he had rested, rising as with the deep cooling of the Earth. It was the exordium of night, speaking of waking bugs and work to be done. He exited the temporary shell, nary a path clear of architectural designs and experimental tools of his own making. Before him laid the foundations to his castle, newly set and cradled. From the tunnel to the city, bugs poured in to begin their duties, the tunnel itself long since cleansed of its teeth. A time had passed. Such a short time… and yet it felt like an eternity.

But he had to hurry. His subjects stared and burst into chatter the moment he flew towards the city. The King supposed it was a rare enough sight to act as a catalyst for their reactions, what with his tendency to focus solely on the architecture of the palace and caverns. And with the rate at which his power was called upon to expand mind and soul, there must have been a few other bugs who had joined the ranks since he last left. Nevertheless, the King ignored their excited words, only pausing to deliver plans for a bridge and lift into the city to the head engineer before flying towards the fungal grove. His subjects cleared the way for him quickly enough, even if their prattle only increased in volume. 

Curious how charming their reactions were, whether they knew him to be watching or not. He would also have to continue his visits to the Pale Root soon, even if they had only met once or twice after the initial encounter.

Entering the Fungal Grove, the White King could not help but notice and catalog the changes brought about from his rule. A gate to guard against possible intruders was already put into place—a precaution the king had insisted on as soon as he had returned. Multiple gates must always be put in place in the event a catastrophic event occurs, breaking the waves of destruction wherever possible. The spores, once thick and eating at the walls, seemed to have abated somewhat, lowering that yellow glow and promising only a small possibility of taking host in a bug. And though a pool of acid prevented many of the city’s residents from going further, a bridge was being constructed for that express purpose—silver, pale, and slight. The Pale King closed the gate to the city and flew over the acid, stopping only once an ambloom was visible right above. 

These small mushrooms, though capable of thought, were largely simple-minded. The king wasted no time in trying to converse with it as he dove into the communal Mind of the fungal kingdom. 

_Hear me,_ he said, a whisper among the sea of voices yet commanding all the same. All went silent at his command. The giant from her children’s mind, in a pool of acid, listened intently. _An invasion comes, and it cannot be prevented. However, it can be stopped. Who here knows of the spiders and burrowers that inhabit these lands? Who knows of silk and the songs that follow? And lastly, who knows of the nail-lance wielders, the ones fated to be this invasion’s cease?_

Those who did came forward. An area named Deepnest, inhabited by the spider clan, “The Weavers”, known for their craftsmanship and ferocity. The burrowers were predators of the savage kind, capable of the same thought as the ambloom, though varied in body. Dirtcarvers, Garpedes, Corpse Creepers were known to pop up where one least expected it, drawn by the agitation of feet and the scent of blood, taking many a victim before diving back into the depths. There were three entrances from the fungal grove—one blocked by way of acid and thorns, one sealed and disguised from the fungal core, and one left free for the Weavers near the Mantis Tribe. Though the two lived very close, the two groups recognized the other’s strength and strove to avoid one another, neither holding back the other in their hunts.

But it was the Mantis who wielded both claw and lance.

The White King nodded as he withdrew from the Mind, warning sent and preparations begun. Though they likely only had hours at most before the invasion started, the only viable entrance laid with the mantises—both the safest and quickest into the grove. The interlopers’ objective seemed to be the hunt, and though this event seems to have occurred with regularity in the past (much to the mushroom’s and sentries’ detriment), the beasts of Deepnest would surely not stop at the city gate. They would know of the veritable feast of bugs below, many of them weak, though the King was loathed to admit. And though these hunters respected the Mantis’s strength, it apparently did not stop them from challenging and hunting the young warriors, barring a few as not to draw too much ire. Perhaps that would factor into the tribe’s decision to ally. Regardless of it all, he would have to see. 

“WAH!” A shrumal warrior exclaimed as it rolled into view. The Wyrm nearly startled, drawing forth soul only to conjure them into handheld nails. He kept them—it would be a waste otherwise. The warrior jumped up with another “WAH!” before rolling away, a trail of thick spores behind him. That must have been his guide then. Of all the… Couldn’t it have been a quieter one at least?

The Pale King could not help his sigh as he followed. Perhaps if they were quick enough, he could still preserve his—

“WAAAAAaaow”

\----------------

By the time the warrior rolled away for the last time, the entrance to the mantis village laid right below. A sign marked the way just before:

**Wanderers seeking death, welcome.**

**May you find swift end upon our claws.**

It was a fascinating development, to say the least. To find that these mantises had already developed a logographic system for writing combined with their warrior culture suggested promising allies. Here, the rancid smell of mushrooms had abated somewhat, with wooden constructions ages old built into the walls. It was almost strange how empty the pathways were. And though the Pale King knew he had to hurry, he could not help but pause to view inside one of the buildings.

Masks and claws decorated the space, undoubtedly from weaker travelers in the past. There were also no stairs or ramps to be found. Rather, large walls with significant gaps separated rooms and chambers bespoke of normalized vertical movement in its residents. Hammocks that hung from the ceiling further supported this conclusion, though the king could not quite see if any were occupied. A shape between the far wall and the ceiling twitched. The Pale King continued on his way before the young mantis could even think of unfurling its wings. Best to avoid unnecessary deaths for the coming battle.

Descending further, the wood slowly overtook the fungal walls. Spikes and switches occupied their primary passive defenses, and as if in preparation for the invasion, the path on the way to the Deepnest entrance was empty. Empty, save for two warriors atop their thrones. 

The Mantis Lords.

According to the information revealed to him, these two warriors were sisters, tested in their strength time and time again until they had ascended to the highmost rank. After which, they had each been given a final challenge to battle the prior lords alone. There had been as many as four mantises holding the title of lord at a single time and as few as one. Whatever the case, it always ensured that only the strongest would lead the tribe.

They watched the White King lazily as he descended into the room. Lazily, but not without caution. A single glance was enough to evaluate their intelligence, and it was clear that they would have no need for his gifts. Well, no desire, at the very least. He could not help another bug’s foolishness if they so chose to follow it.

He stared at them from the center of the room. Their idle gazes indicated just one maxim: Only strength alone will grant him an audience. Without a demonstration, no word he could say would reach them. But of course, if that was what was required, the Wyrm would gladly oblige.

Moving deliberately, he lifted his nails up to split them in a halo of metal and pale light as the lower beings rose. With one smooth motion, he brandished the two he still held to his sides—a clear challenge to the lords, each point ready to strike at the slightest movement. He even allowed soul to coalesce on the handles of the floating nails, allowing for blazing trails should they actually move. His wings flared behind him as the arena formed. He’d rather not waste time fighting them.

There was a sigh as one of the lords sat back down. “Just what are you, traveler? Your weapons are clearly not of bug make.”

The Pale King kept the weapons around him despite the de-escalation, a weary eye kept on the ground. He would be needing them in a few moments. “I am the ruler of the fungal grove, the god-king of the drizzling caverns, and the former White Wyrm of the wastes beyond. Who are you to speak to me so?”

The other mantis stood still, nail lance stiff in hand. “My sister and I are the Mantis Lords of this tribe, so chosen by the Last Dance of our predecessors. Do you challenge us, Pale Th—”

“Do not bother, Kirrki. Higher beings are on another level than bugkind, his strength does not need to be tested. Do you not remember the elders’ stories of Greenpath?”

She growled, “Nika, this traveler has come in during our preparations with his nails drawn. Higher being or not, a challenge has been made, and respect may only be given after he has been proven worthy of it. What if this light is an illusion, the same as his nails?”

“Mind you, his titles claimed are not ones to be taken lightly, and one cannot fake the way he holds himself. Our respect is given to the strong; higher beings have inborn strength unmatched by any other.”

“But we cannot know for sure! He must prove himself if he wants our respect, such is the way of our tribe!”

“Kir—”

“If I may interject,” the Pale King said, “You do not need to challenge me. Your respect will be given in just a moment, and all I require is an audience.”

“This ‘god’ seems so sure,” said Kirriki, “And why is that? Don’t tell me you’ll force loyalty into our minds.”

“Force? No, I honor free will. Rather, all I ask is for my actions in these coming moments to be repaid in full.” 

“Oh? And what will you do in that time allotted?” Nika replied. The Pale king tilted his head before moving two steps to the right. The vibrations were clear as water. All it took was two seconds.

Dirt sprayed into the air as several dirtcarvers burrowed out from underneath, emerging from the earth the king had just been standing on. Immediately, several nails sailed into their eyes, bellies, and flesh between exoskeleton cracks. The blazing trails stayed for several seconds, burning and shocking the carvers that strayed into their path. Five of the larger ones dead in an instant. Three small ones. One garpede. Several more poured out, but the lords soon swung into action, dispatching them easily enough. Several more screeches resounded from the tunnel as the lords readied their lances. “Just what do you think you’re doing?” Nika hissed at the Wyrm. 

He merely sent another nail directly into another dirtcarver’s body. “The hunters of Deepnest prey on your young also, do they not? Weak or strong, they should be taught a lesson on harming those under my protection.”

“Protection? We don’t need your protection!” Kirriki exclaimed, “The Beasts of Deepnest have proven themselves worthy! They are free to come and go to battle as they wish.”

Silk attached to needles shot out of the tunnel, the spiders soon to come. “To battle? Or to hunt? The fungal grove knows of your declining population, mantis. Two more years of this and you would have been wiped out. I know how the rest of your tribe hides as you two pitifully attempt self-sacrifice.”

There was a moment of silence from them both. Perhaps they did not realize he knew. It was not a difficult guess anyway. Regardless, their shame held the air until it was shattered by the first Beast sailing out of the cavern.

It was a Weaver, intelligent and ferocious. It flew in on a strand of silk, stopping just short of the lords. 

“What is the meaning of this?” it said. Its mask quivered as if aching to strike. “We passed your test long ago, we are granted safe passage through these tunnels!”

Kirriki looked to her sister, stance uneasy. Nika meanwhile stood rigid. “Yes, safe passage from the mantises in this village and fair battles whenever desired. However, your battles are not battles at all. You target the young and elderly specifically, like a coward—”

“Such is the way of the hunt!” The weaver erupted, “If anything, we are culling the feeble from your numbers. We desire food, and you desire a challenge to hone the edge of your people. Did each hunter not obtain the Mark of Pride ourselves? And besides, our target today is not your people. This Pale Thing, what is it supposed to be? Tiny and delicate, it looks like the bugs we aim to hunt. Why do you allow such weakness in your halls? Have you truly grown soft? Move aside, our harvesters have no time for this.” 

Such interesting claims. The Pale King kept silent in their exchange. Just how would lower bugs handle a serious threat? He watched as the Weaver took a step forward, doubtlessly expecting the lords to move aside. It was amusing to see its eyes narrow as the sisters crossed their lances in front of it. “Hunter or not, you will have to use a different exit from Deepnest,” Nika replied. “Our people will stay safe tonight.”

It swiftly swung its head to the side, “You, weaker one.” Kirriki flinched at the addressal she was given, and yet made no move to correct it. Was she the one this hunter defeated in the past? Or perhaps both lords were, and she was the one who barely survived. “Do you agree with this? Deepnest will have mercy on you, should you allow us to pass. We will take as we have always done, no more, no less, and then leave you all alone. A fair notion, no? Otherwise, we will have to slaughter you all.”

The mantis shook but still stood. It was admirable, really. Such plain weakness and yet such strength in will. These rulers would do anything for their tribe, even give up their lives if it meant just one more day. For its safety, there would be no cost too great.

The standoff lasted a full moment before the weaver turned away. “So be it,” it warned.

The needle would have entered straight through Kirriki’s brain had the Pale King not intervened. The pale nail was thrown, spinning point over handle quickly enough as to deflect any possibility of miscalculation. The iron needle glanced off it, torque forcing the needle to go flying to the far wall as the nail itself shorn into the slack silk. Kirriki and the weaver glanced at the king—both with annoyance, actually. The wyrm would have been insulted had his attention not been caught by the still traveling nail, mowing through an entire line of burrowers with little effort. 

It must have been due to the sparks he provided to power its spin. He quite liked that. Perhaps an optimized tool…?

A loud clang! Brought him back to his senses. The weaver had managed to retrieve its weapon within seconds, parrying a double strike from both lords. There was a small shudder that reverberated down its shell before its mask split wide for the face within to bite at the sisters. Venom dripped from its fangs before snapping shut once more, the lords reeling back. The beast then wasted no time at all in its recovery, weaving its needle in, around, and between the mantises, entrapping them in a web so intricate that the White King could almost make out a seal. The weaver drew back its needle, almost as if it were resting. Focusing.

The Pale King cut the mantises from the silk just as the weaver finished binding. He flew back, watching as the silk grew wild and razor-sharp. It would have killed the mantises by the way they were trapped. Both sisters looked back with wild eyes. He recognized that bloodlust. 

“Take care of the burrowers, warriors. Consider this proof of my strength.”

There was a small hesitance, but they had no time. Nika placed a hand on Kirriki’s shoulder, and the latter soon nodded. An endless fount of them still threatened the tribe, and though delegating this task to them would allow some to escape, such an outcome was inevitable.

An intelligent burrower, a centipede perhaps, would tunnel back and warn the others of Deepnest. They would use another exit, as this one was now far too inconvenient. Two or three more hunters would attack the fungal grove. Though their forces would be weakened by the simpler-minded falling to the thorns and acid, a significant cut of the mushroom population would be lost, along with a small portion of bugs in the city. Only enough to fill a hunter’s pack, but still a loss.

No matter. This sacrifice would ensure unsuccessful invasions for years to come. And though it was not guaranteed by Sight, this, he was sure of. 

The weaver once more bristled with anger. Its attention, finally, was on him. “You are no weak prey, are you?”

The White Wyrm wouldn’t deign to answer.

A nail to the throat. A nail to the mask. The beast scuttled away on its six legs, dodging both. The needle, thrown to miss. Allowed. The weaver shot towards him, evading several spinning nails. One scratch. The burning trails forced it into an awkward stance, no longer able to follow through its original attack. A stray dirtcarver nipped at his feet. Dead. Buried like a root. The king backstepped with a slash as the weaver swung its needle at him, his wings unfurling to rise. The beast lowered itself into a crouch. Several more nails were dodged, the weaver grazing him as he hurried to conjure more, needle as fast as rain.

“Losing your nerve? What is this blind aim?”

It pulled its needle back, surprising the king. He fell as the iron struck his wing, robes curling back once more. He faced down, hit once more by a basic swing, wrist quickly trapped in a loop of silk. Almost done. His wounds burned cold. 

The weaver towered above him, as if he were the lower being. “I suppose the queen was right about the bugs. You, even with your light, cannot compare to the beasts of Deepnest.” It took a step back to deliver the final blow.

Utterly foolish. The White King’s head snapped back, nails rising from the ground like the Pale Lady’s roots, sharp and unyielding. It skewered the beast, the chitin no match for pure metal. Soul sparked along the spikes, moving easily past the natural defense of mask and shell to attack what laid beneath. The weaver let out a choked cry at the blow, but held its needle in a clenched fist, refusing to perish just yet. 

The Pale King tilted his head at this display. Well, if that was what it insisted. The beast jerked once and then twice, falling roughly as the nails dissolved away. The king focused for a moment—no more than a second—and wrapped his newly healed wing around himself once more. What little scratches once on his shell were gone without a trace. 

He kept still as the weaver rose back up, hunched over. It trembled in pain, and what was once a storm of silk had all been reduced to broken strands. Pitiful. He turned to admire the thrones of the mantis lords as the beast let out a battle cry behind him. Doubtless, in just a second, the needle would be thrown.

Another shout, this one much more amicable. A single minute was all that was taken for the exhausted lords to return to their thrones. Yet both of them still stood at the sight of him. Kirriki held her bloodied lance, red fabric now tied around it.

A bow. So it was set. With protection from Deepnest dealt with and a treaty to be formed, the King happily returned the gesture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kirriki coming in for that kill steal.
> 
> So finally, we get a glimpse of Deepnest along with some interaction with the Mantis Lords. The lords shown here are meant to be predecessors of the ones we see in game, though how far back I've yet to decide. It seems that the mantises have a choice of weapons between claws and lances, with the Sisters of Battle favoring the latter and their brother favoring the former, possibly being the reason why the Traitor Lord was seen as weakest before he took in the infection. Deepnest, meanwhile, is as ferocious as ever. Considering the name of Beast and Hornet's mien of a hunter, I imagine the Weavers as a warrior race as well, hunting for food as either an annual event or when resources were low. PK's interference with their relationship with the Mantis Village, rather than an understandable defense of his own territory, really creates a negative first impression. It's the start of a beautiful animosity. 
> 
> Speaking of the Pale King, he finally meets his true love in this chapter. Buzzsaws and spikes. Or at least, the inspiration for them. The Pale King is an observer, and only makes a show of strength when he needs to. He much prefers decisive attacks that end the battle in an instant. His value in free will also gives him a sort of ironic humor for his enemies when they don't immediately fall. Weaver thinks lowly of the lords? Allow it to fall to them. Deepnest wishes to be apart from his kingdom? How about a tram and stagway into the heart of their village? And the Radiance wants to live on in his subjects? Go ahead and live in one with no mind or will or voice. 
> 
> Unfortunately, updates may come in slower from now on. I apologize, blame college. Also, thank you Orza for commenting so much. When I worry about a chapter's reception you come in and brighten up my day. Hope you all like this chapter.
> 
> —Haili


	6. A Lake of Acid

“38 shrumal warriors dead, 45 fungoons, 15 shrumal ogres, and countless amblooms and funglings lost.”

“Any husks?”

“A couple of husks, but no more than three. They did not like the taste, apparently.”

“And what about the City of Tears?”

“You will have to ask them yourself, Pale Wyrm. The Mind extends only to my children.”

The Pale King shook his head, “Yes, yes, I realize that. However, we require the most reliable logistics in order to rebuild. For example, I had not realized that so many of the fungal grove would be lost. Had the warning not gotten through?”

“The warning was well received, and all possible preparations accounted for. This was but a fraction of what is usually lost in these hunts.”

“But a significant portion nonetheless.”

The giant turned slightly in its shallow pool. “Worry not, dear king. Your foresight has shielded us. The bargain is kept still.”

“Nevertheless, as a ruler, I must take responsibility. Now tell me of the attackers and what you have observed,” replied the king.

“Ah, that will take some time.”

“What for?”

“Some shrumelings were captured alive.”

A small silence. “What?”

“I will compile the information of the coming hours, should you wish.” 

“I do. You have my gratitude, Shum.”

The mushroom nodded before falling back into her dream. “And mine, yours.”

The Pale King exited the fungal core with a wandering mind. Logistics and plans, plans and logistics. For all the data he would need to gather, there were no compartmentalizations of feeling that could quench his worry. The beasts of Deepnest had already proven to be formidable foes: assuming a loss proportional to two or three hunters (and considering their command over the burrowers with the skill exhibited by the one encountered), casualties in the caverns were sure to be much more than he had estimated. Perhaps even a fifth of the bug population, vanished into the shadows with nothing but a half-forgotten skitter and chink of a needle thrown. 

The mushrooms had faced this threat before, they were much more forgiving because of that. They understood the loss was necessary, along with the sacrifices for a better-made future. But these other subjects—they might not understand. Their judgments may cloud, their emotions overtaking reason in favor of the immediate picture. And of all his distant visions and their twisted sounds of cloudy horizons, of promises and prophecies yet twisting miscalculations all the same, none would tell him of the impact each choice may cause. None would show him the finer details of his kingdom come. 

Would the bugs of Hallownest still worship him as king after this incident? See him as protector, ruler, beacon in the darkness? Or would they simply view a false light, drifting brilliantly yet faded when directly seen? No longer a refuge for mind and soul would this kingdom be, but a hollow imitation of a promise never kept.

No, the Pale King shook his head, he could not think like that. Such a loss inspires doubt, that much is true, but doubt begets indecisiveness, indecisiveness begets weakness, and weakness begets a rot deep within. To make his kingdom great, he must stay a strong ruler, different from the ones that crumbled theirs from within so long ago. Majestic cities of bronze; flying gardens of glass, silver, and moss; or labyrinths of wishes and secrets and heart—what did any of it matter when the rulers had all fallen to what lay within? A rot where one is no longer a king, but a tyrant become incapable of looking past the immediate. No, despite the wonders, a true kingdom promises safety, society, and freedom at the price of the king himself. Should the kingdom be great, then devotion will surely follow. What did the initial opinion of his subjects matter when he knew the truth of it? And aside from a possible rebellion or mass exodus—two incredibly unlikely reactions at this point—what would it matter? 

He closed his eyes with a final breath. What did it truly matter. 

The green canyon of mist and fog laid before him. It was the opposite direction of the ancient basin and drizzling cavern to be sure, but the sight itself was a calming one. Tiny pools of acid collected on the ledges, a path upward mapping itself out in his mind’s eye. He glanced around before nodding. Yes, investigation of this area would be a perfect pastime—at least until Shum finished reconnaissance through the shrumelings. A drifting bubble caught his attention, strangely shaped. Perhaps he could even indulge himself in a few studies while there.

Climbing upward was hardly a challenge, as rarely any creatures sought to throw themselves towards his teeth. Well, nails now. In fact, the bugs found here were nearly docile, seeking either to completely disguise themselves in vegetation (a vain undertaking considering how often they gave themselves away) or to apparently slam themselves into walls. It was almost amusing to see all these little creatures squeak and move away at what seemed to be the slowest speed possible. Nevertheless, the king continued. Acid seemed to fill almost every crevice, pouring down from above wherever there was an opening to be found. Upon reaching the top of the area, there was a path to the East which he followed. It was only a short time before he came across a green lake, bubbling and full of strange creatures.

Slimy and translucent, they seemed to live in the acid itself, dependent on rather than trapped by it. And yet, they could survive outside of it. The larger ones seemed bound to a set distance from the lake, able to swim in the very air, and only returning occasionally to rehydrate. The smaller ones were able to float on the bubbles of acid, rising softly past the shoreline before falling back into the water as if they were playing. But when the king extended his dream to search theirs, he found none. No mind, only soul—that which was already present in all animated beings. Peculiar… appendages hung down from each creature from their bubble-like heads. They produced quite a sting when touched too—the sort that should not have hurt if not for the acid eating away at his shell. The Pale King shook his hand to be rid of the acid. The sting seemed to linger. 

A single swing of the nail seemed to cut through them with no trouble either. The larger ones seemed to rebound slightly when hit with the flat of a blade, but the smallest bit of perturbation was enough to completely rend the smallest. With such fragile bodies, it was a wonder they managed to infest the area so. And yet… The Wyrm had an idea. Though he had encountered mindless creatures before in the fungal grove, their being had been imprinted on and claimed by Shum, given a purpose already through the fungal Mind. These creatures however—they were alone. Clean. The being that had so claimed these caverns seemed to be sleeping, calling its lands and creatures back into its dream while these creatures stayed. They must have come from another land, possibly on the back of some unlucky traveler who fell into the lake, divorcing them from any prior connections. In his travels about the wastes, before the world fell and grew so much smaller, there were gods that created their own people. A people suited to and formed for them, idyllic and fulfilled. 

Perhaps this, he could try. Failure would cost nothing but a few spent hours, and success would guarantee a species of complete devotion, always happy and trusting under his rule, and never one to doubt or to leave. It was an oddly comforting thought. It would be worth it to try.

So, with his objective set, the Pale King began to work. He captured one of the small ones in his hands, form too small to produce any sting whatsoever. With his other pair, he drew symbols in the air above to help focus his power. Sparks of soul coalesced into notes into symbols full of light. Here, the basis was already done. He had no need to focus on biological necessities until the mind itself required it. But the mind itself…

Prior to this he had only expanded the capabilities of those who devoted themselves to him. Horizons broadened, only their intelligence and perception had been increased, allowing for greater connections to be discovered. And though this expansion may be attributed to him, it was ultimately the subject’s own mind that created and unearthed the ideas that would eventually come to light. This creature, as a blank canvas, had none of that. Where before, he simply had to open avenues, the White Wyrm now had to craft the pathways themselves. A delicate and consuming task—especially for the kind of being he had in mind. 

The soul sparked in his hands, only to overload within the bubble-like structure and obliterate the creature. Right. Well. That was only the initial attempt. Blind too! It only meant a more delicate process was required.

He captured another, repeating the process. It floated gently in his hands, quite active for a smaller specimen. The soul gathered once more, and the Pale King focused on keeping it under control. Slowly, he fed it to the being, taking care to hold the—Failure. The specimen had floated straight into one of the symbols surrounding it, distorting the spell and ultimately ruining it. It almost melted in his hands from the excess soul.

No matter. He took another from the lake. This time, grasping it firmly in his han… Well. Too firm. 

Another. This time, he bound it into a still position in front of him. It allowed for more freedom as he worked. He collected the soul within him once more, thinking better of the last time and focusing it into a thread not unlike the weavers’ silk. Enemies they may be, it would be foolish to prohibit advancement based on that principle alone. Gently, he fed it into the creature’s mind. A steady hand was required, just the slightest mistake could burn the wrong passage down it’s—it—it’s gone. Of course.

A larger creature had propelled itself straight into the one he was working on. As if it was aiming for it. With a stiff neck, the Pale King flicked the carcass of the specimen away, before gliding over to the annoyance. It swam in the air, uncaring. The King, now close enough, called forth a nail to materialize within the body of the creature itself and ordered the metal to **spin**. It rent the being into pieces no smaller than motes of dust. Satisfied, the king went back to work, clearing a space further away from the lake.

Until the next dried out in the middle of the procedure. Of all the—could they not have been built with more resilient bodies? 

Taking a moment to rest and think, the Pale King calmed himself. Frustration would do no good, and would only serve to make him imprecise. What he needed was to avoid this perception of only working on the mind. Plainly, if he wanted creatures that could survive outside of the green lake, he would need to work on the bodies too. The extra soul may be a waste on the failed experiments, but it would ensure an easier way to go about things, as it were. And with regards to the mind itself, what exactly did he want? There was devotion of course, along with free will. The former would mean nothing to him without the latter. But these people created by him would be reflective of him to the travelers seeking a new land. What qualities would be necessary?

Intelligence and curiosity, it seemed, would be a given. Strength as another. Though their fragile bodies would mean they would never carry a nail, spellcasters shall abound. Perhaps kindness would be beneficial also—it would comfort the foreigners and keep the overall wellbeing of the kingdom at the front of their minds. Nevertheless, with a plan now set, the king captured several more creatures in preparation of the possible failures.

A few moments later, the king captured several more.

And even later, even more.

The king hunched over a newly assembled desk, examining this latest failure. The membrane had been toughened by soul, with the creatures themselves now larger and able to receive nutrition from a cursory dip in the acid pool every few hours, if his calculations were correct. Each “head” of the specimens also held a core within, a focal point of thought. It glowed pale and oddly purple. Must have been a vestige of its ancestral home, the Pale King concluded. It barely held a thought within itself though, barring a single word or phrase. Regardless, though a failure, the specimen was allowed to float back into the lake, along with two or three of its like. This process, while normally enjoyable, was grueling. Perhaps it was the inclusion of creatures rather than architecture or tools. Perhaps it was the countless hours wasted. Either way, the Pale King could not turn away. Every time he would begin to entertain the idea, the slightest bit of progress would just pull him back into the task. He was much too invested in the project at this point, all else be damned!

It wasn’t until ten more failures joined the others in the lake that something changed. This specimen was strangely docile. It was less restless than the other creatures and more receptive to the soul fed into it. The core developed beautifully, and the creature soon seemed to glow from the soul strengthening its body. The mind inside pulsed, collecting the information the Pale King whispered to it as he worked. Only basic communication and logical processes were needed for now; survival was inborn and complex knowledge would come at a later date. The pathways were engraved, the sparks taken and imitated. And yet, the soul seemed to siphon out, white notes of dream failing to take hold. It was the latest puzzle he had yet to solve, and the creature itself seemed to blink as if falling into a slumber from which it would never wake. If only it had a face.

A face! The Wyrm could have struck himself for his own stupidity. Hurriedly, the king sliced off a piece of his shell to reform into a mask. There was no time to search for a maker, and he had to hurry before the specimen expired. The cold air hit his midsection as he peeled away the scale. It stung, but it was bearable. With five nails at one, he set to carving it in the likeness of an ancient mask, all the while pausing the specimen in a preservative hold of soul. A final cut—a simple design with four holes—and it was set. The king quickly reviewed the creature, not yet willing to listen to its half-formed words, and burned the finishing touches upon its mind. Once done, he sealed the mask over the creature’s core in a cataract of dream. 

_**Focus**_ , he commanded, then spoke no more.

The brilliant white light faded away like lumaflies escaping their lanterns. The seals and symbols that so held the creature were released, and the rushing of his heartbeat slowed. The specimen bobbed in the air, a mask sealed over its head. Its shape now seemed distorted from the other experiments.

But it lived. And it thought.

_Kinglight… A world… A dream… A name..._

_I am Monomon._

It worked! The Pale King almost wanted to shout out in triumph. Quickly, he dissolved the table to pace around the creature, peering deep within her. She was still dreaming, unable to do more until her sense of self was developed enough to become conscious, but with enough time she would grow into an intelligent being. Gently, he pushed her into the acid. Already, there was a sense of self and a desire to know more. Monomon—a strange name, but not one he was opposed to. Doubtless, her presence would soon influence the failures—perhaps she would have some power over them? Though that might depend entirely on his own presence. Doubtless, there would be much to discover. 

The Pale King looked back over the lake, watching the strange creatures float along the acid shores. His midsection, strangely cold, stung as horribly as the acid bubbles popped near him. His reserves from the latest attempt were dangerously low. It had been many hours, much longer than what Shum had needed to refine the shrumelings’ view and more so of him avoiding the City in construction. Not to mention, a headache formed at the very sight of the floating creatures. No, he had decided. No more.

The White King, with a final seal of protection around Monomon, flew back to the fungal core.

\----------------

_The hunter released its catch, those alive and those dead all rolling away. Several creatures escaped, only to fall into spikes and the hands of awaiting younglings. What darkness in this place, twisting passageways and confines built to confuse._

_A sickening crunch. A rattle as one of the corpses scuttled away. A low hum, growing, as the hunters delivered choice prey to the queen._

_It stopped._

_“My Lady Herrah,” a weaver said, “We bring offerings… and ill tidings.”_

_The queen slunk out of the shadows, into the view of the shrumeling. Large horns overshadowed her mask and her arms, covered in razor-thin thread, wove gently as she spoke. “Where is your brother? Why is one among you missing?”_

_A shudder down the hunter’s arms. Its hands dug deep into the prey. “Dead.”_

_“Dead?” Her six eyes narrowed into slits, “By whom?”_

_“By the White King of Hallownest.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things ain't letting up Chief. It's just one complication right after another. Sorry for how long I've been taking.
> 
> Regardless, Monomon arrives! At least, her half-aware immature self has. With a mind like hers, one has to wonder why she chose to dream for the pale king, along with what inspired her to compose that elegy. Welp, here is my interpretation. She'll grow before long, and considering the lifespan of jellyfish in our world, her being pretty old seems to fit well, even if that makes Herrah super old too. Nevertheless, considering that the latter was the mother of "twisting, scratching things" and beside her was a "dead sire, once of honoured caste", she must have been a mortal with some longevity. And the Pale King--a few things to say about him here. He worries about two things: the state of his kingdom and the bugs' worship of him. His nature, tied closely with metal, architecture, and soul, allows him value in art and curiosity. But that which truly matters to him is an escape from all which must end. It is also shown that when confronted with intense pressure, he favors the idea of running away--"temporarily" in this case. Supposedly to find a solution too. But how he deals with problems that actually scare him is still there. Also, the Pale King does attempt to create his own species like the Radiance to the moths here. He puts in the hope that if he succeeds they, at least, will never stop worshiping him. In theory. And since creatures aren't his forte, after hours and hours of trying and failing the easy route, he produces and declares a single success, that's it, he's done. In honor of all the labs and programming I've personally suffered.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed this chapter,  
> \--Haili


	7. Crossroads and the Shaman

“And what of your people in the caverns? Have their simple minds turned from the light due to your mistake?”

The Pale King shook his head, “It was no mistake.” He paced the cave, ferns and ash littering the floor. The faces he encountered in his flight back, the relieved and the betrayed—they all fell to their knees before his light. The select few that stood with unseeing eyes haunted him. “The problem is that they do not understand.”

His choices explained in a proclamation of their newest allies. A time spent walking the breadth of the caverns, to and fro, picking up the pieces. Regular reminders of his presence served to reassure those who forgot safety in his absence. Construction of idols like dolls. Frequent commands and supervision to keep them distracted. Once the initial shock was over, many came back. Some did not. The sacrificed—

“You coward!” One of them had yelled as he turned away, “My children are dead because of you!”

“My brothers,” whispered a rocking figure, “my brothers.”

“Have you seen her?” another asked. “She brought me to you, my king please, surely you will find one so devoted as her. Please.”

—All insignificant to the whole of his kingdom. “It was a sacrifice: no more, no less. The loss was necessary for prosperity in the years to come,” the Pale King said.

“Such is the way of things.”

“Deepnest would have taken far more over the years if I had stayed to defend the caverns. The Fungal Grove would have sustained many more casualties. With the Mantis treaty, so many more have been saved.”

“So you’ve foreseen.”

“And who is a king to question his own judgment? I was certain this was the right course of action. I am certain. The Mantises have even reported an attempt at a second hunt just the other day! I have kept to my promises—all of them. Do they not see? It is necessary to move on!”

She murmured a fleeting noise. Agreement? Not enough. No, it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t long before the Wyrm stopped, staring deep into the falling molt. The stifled cries of the affected, muffled by the ground and overshadowed by the sea of faces turned to him, yet clear as the warmth of the earth deep, deep below. “What is this guilt?” He muttered.

It was at this admission that the Pale Root moved. A gentle sweep of the ground revealed black soil, soft and full of silt. A single glint of white stood out from the rest. “Pick it up,” she said, “and crush it.”

The wyrm complied, a mote of soul flying within. “What is it?”

“One of my seeds,” the Pale Lady said. “They are scattered throughout the land, extensions of myself that may outlast my life, hearing what vibrations in the rock that my roots cannot. But with them, I can see.”

“And the purpose of this?”

“Do you not see? I, with children such as these, will never be starved of heart. How could one be when it is never offered in the first place? Easily replaced and devoid of love, I felt nothing but a cursory disappointment at one’s fate so short. You however, dear Wyrm and ancient beast, you have offered your heart to your kingdom and everything that resides within. You have allowed each bug to choose you freely. You’ve allowed them to be unique and free. And though their roles may be filled—”

“None will ever be truly replaced.”

The Pale King turned to her. Those blue eyes blinked at him, unassuming yet sage in their shine. Would he ever be free from the enigmas she held? “I will return another time,” he said, “Thank you for your words.”

The lady hummed, humor infused in her voice. “Before you leave, there are some places I’d like you to explore. Up near the crust of the land, a series of ordered tunnels and tiny villages—I feel the footsteps of those bugs every day. Additionally to the zenith, a whisper of dream and fertile land for which to grow your kingdom.”

The king chuckled, “My Root, one would believe you are beginning to enjoy my company. Hadn’t there been a time when you would urge me to go at the slightest word?”

“That was before you brought discoveries and thoughts along with your questions.”

“And yet this interest in my kingdom…”

“For whatever you imply, I care not. I admire nothing more than the stories you bring and the nourishment you offer. Do not forget the soil while you go.”

“And lose my invitation? Never,” he replied, calling forth soul to drive deep into the soil. What began as an alternative to the subjects she would lure in became almost a comfort to the Pale Wyrm, an excuse to exercise his magic outside of the caverns.

The Pale Root closed her eyes, listening to the world around her. The Pale King lingered for a moment longer. “Would you be so averse to such an offer?” he asked.

A single glance before returning, “I do not understand what you are referring to.”

“Perhaps when I return,” he said.

“Perhaps.”

The Pale King left towards the city.

\----------------

“To the zenith,” she had said. Just how far had she meant? The Pale Wyrm flew to the top of the cavern, following one of the rare places where it did not rain. Behind him, two warriors followed, climbing the carved walls with expert locomotion. It was an escort forced upon him by the subjects building his palace. The moment he had stepped outside and unfurled his wings, they rushed the bugs toward him, as if waiting for that moment.

Those clever bugs seemed to know his habits already, such a departure from the times before. And though the knights had nothing special to their names or nails, permitting them to follow allowed for the others to feel more secure. He knew they reported to Captain Ovin anyhow, the nosy fool. Though growing old, he was as sharp as ever. Whatever discoveries the wyrm made, they would be put into good use.

The tunnel was wide and vertical with ragged walls, difficult to climb but easy enough to fly past. The king glanced at the knights. “Have any of you wings?” 

The helmeted one shrugged, “I’m afraid not, your grace.”

“Fair enough. Let it be known that a lift should be constructed here.”

“Up to where my king?” the smaller one asked. He had an interest in architecture from what the wyrm could gather. 

“You will see soon. Both of you, step aside for a moment.” The Pale King walked to the center of the room. The tunnel itself was almost perfectly vertical, what he suspected to be a vestige of a kingdom long since collapsed. Whether of ritualistic or practical purposes, the king observed a domed ceiling far above, albeit covered in stalactites. It would be a simple task to refine later on. For now, however—the Pale King collected his power, forming a steel nail, fully serrated as to help its grip. At its end, he attached a chain, infused with the metal but reinforced several times to support the weight it would be holding. Quickly, he buried it in the ceiling, chainlinks constructed as soon as the end slid through his hands. Once it was over, he gave the line a tug. Good. “I shall wait for you at the top,” he explained, and flew upwards.

The tunnels here were strangely open yet rough, either dug out by a giant or scratched over years by travelers seeking what laid below. Rarely were there completely vertical pathways from what he could see, favoring horizontal passageways instead. It seemed to be made for travelers just as much as it was made by them.

The knights rose after the long climb, breathing heavily. The Pale King nodded once they caught their breath, setting off immediately after. There was a source of power nearby, he could sense it. They could relax after it was found.

_Footsteps and voices, the warmth of a thousand stories. Chimes echoed down the chambers with thunderous strikes, calling, waiting, running. All who arrived came in search of promises and safety. Treasures._

_Dreams._

__

Even in the empty tunnels carved out by wandering explorers and determined seekers, the walls never threatened to fall away. The air never stilled: neither howling gales nor swampy gusts invaded the space. Rather, the gentle breeze of possibilities unending pushed all of them along. The dreams of passersby truly had left a marking on this place. All that was needed was refinement to bring out its true beauty. 

The Pale King paused just as his escorts did. Shimmering pools of water, heated by the earth and infused with soul, laid before them. His head tilted at them, “These springs strike you two as familiar. Have you perchance imbibed from its waters before?”

“Drink? We bathe in it!” The smaller one exclaimed. Quite excitedly too. He shrank back in embarrassment as the Pale King stared.

“If your majesty allows,” the other one commented, “Could we perhaps rest here for a moment? It has been a long time since any of us have experienced its like, if at all.” 

Was that all? The king waved his hand, “Go ahead. I will study these waters for a while yet. We will leave in an hour.”

The two of them bowed, “Thank you, my king.” Then, like children, ran into the pool itself. Perhaps they were more exhausted than he realized. Oh well.

He tested the spring in both aquifer and land. With the peaceful climate and near silence of the area, the Pale King found it almost effortless to focus. Soul was infused in the water and wall, seemingly leached from the air and minerals of the areas it ran through. Small rivulets streamed down the rock, collecting in the pool which his knight now rested. The spring itself, assumedly far from any magma, may have been heated solely through the presence of soul. It could explain why the water was lukewarm rather than hot. If one could focus the soul to a more rejuvenating state, and perhaps open up the natural streams into cataracts, then such a resource could truly be optimized. The—

“My king,” one of the knights called, “It has been a few hours already. Do you still wish to move on?”

The Pale King fixed him with a stern look, “Perhaps you would prefer to lead this expedition? Order me finished in the studies meant for the betterment of the kingdom? My kingdom?”

“What? No, my king, I—”

“Fortunately, I had just about finished when you disturbed me. Imagine what would have happened should my concentration had been broken. Do not do so again.”

Cowed, the bug shrank back. “Y-Yes, your grace.”

The White King nodded, “Good. Otherwise, I am glad to see you two eager to continue. How were the springs?”

“Refreshing, my king,” the other said.

“Excellent, I will include plans for this area in its designs.”

But before the expedition could move on, an unknown voice came creeping out of the shadows: “A good choice, pale one! Should one lay claim to the whole of Hallownest, such a natural feature would do wonders for attracting citizens. Ohohoho!”

The two guards immediately leapt into action, drawing their nails toward the dark figure in the exit. It walked forward unabashedly, a staff held loosely in its grip with masks (or were they skulls?) hung around its neck. It stopped just short of the knights, yet far enough that they did not need to step forward to attack. The Pale King strode towards it, summoning a crown of nails pointing to the stranger, hovering just above each of his warriors’ heads. Let that be warning enough if it found his bugs too little of a threat.

“A snail? I have heard tell of your race in lands long past, shaman. What is it that you seek?”

“Oho, nothing so bad as what you could be imagining. I come on behalf of my brothers and sisters in hope of making a new friend! And considering the tales you must have heard, surely you must divine the reasons to that, White Wyrm. Would you truly refuse?”

In the grave of a kingdom long since fell to dust, the husks of the drained still slept. Soul Eaters, a race and tribe so bent on the consumption of soul that nothing animated was free from its grasp. Deadly spells and torturous blades, what use was a sharp and quick end when there was still magic to be leeched? The Pale Wyrm still remembered watching through the earth as the queen fell in a whirlwind harvest of power, still listening as her dying breath signaled the growth of the wastelands. Though few in number, those snails never knew their limits. And once control was lost, nothing could hold them back.

The knights around him had no idea of the danger before them. Yet, by how this shaman still held a staff rather than a blade or hammer, the Soul Eaters may have never spread their influence here. Perhaps these snails still drew in ambient soul instead. And yet the look in this shaman’s eye… it did not please the Pale King at all.

“Yes,” he said after a moment, “the White King shall be a friend to you and your kin. Are your mounds nearby?”

In his knights’ eyes, the snail seemed to brighten up. Their nails began to lower, their stances softening. This weakness in recognition irked the king. Did he not already grant them superior perception? How could they not see the danger this creature still held?

“Ah yes, the mounds of my ancestors! Sadly, a Great War has broken out a few generations before, and all that is left is my family. There is only one mound now, friend: The Ancestral Mound. Follow me!” It exclaimed, leading the way. 

The Pale King followed. Though incredibly small in number, it would be a mistake to ignore them. 

“Come now wyrm, does your prescience only foretell misery? I can assure you no harm will come from either of us, should our friendship stay intact.”

“You know very well the reach of my foresight, shaman. Where is your family?”

“Just beyond the walls. Come, all of you! Please, behold the home of our ancestors! You will find it to be very merry, so long as there are no enemies within. Come forward, there are introductions to be had!”

The four entered the mound to the crunch and rattling of bones and masks. Small wooden torches lit the area, a primitive light only used by those who worshipped none. Fragile and wild, the natural fire’s flickering glow threw unsightly shadows against the floor. Singing from a small, tinny voice seemed to echo through tunnels. As soon as it ended, cheering and laughter lined every part of the room. Even his knights clapped in response.

“My niece,” the shaman said, “quite the singer, is she not? Now everyone, please come forth! We have a new friend I must introduce!”

Snails of all sizes and power came forward. Not many—six in total, counting the one who so brazenly led him here—but a significant portion nonetheless. 

“My brothers, sisters, niece, and son,” it said, motioning to each one in turn. “As the eldest, I am soon to be bound to this place alone, and the others will be off to make their own mounds soon. Safe passage is sure to be a challenge, what with all the dangers throughout the land. Oh, but sadly, we have no such favors offered to help ease the burden. Not one to even set aside a good destination for our home.”

The Pale King stared, “So soon? Who are those so ready to leave the nest?”

“Ah, that would be my brothers. As twins, they’ve done twice the training and growing in a constant fight to one-up the other. Look at them! They’ve worn away their staffs as rain does rock! Incredibly gentle around other creatures however, one would not believe their sense of justice. Why there was this one time we were playing with a young Baldur when—“

“You make your point clear, shaman.” The Pale King said, “I will clear them a spot in the city on the morrow.”

“Ah, what a marvel! You have my gratitude, wyrm. I scarcely deserve a friend like you! There are is a path—“

“To the West, yes, I know.”

“—that leads directly into the grove and to your city. It offers such a large hole too, one should really place a gate there lest... ‘intruders’ sneak in.”

Its eyes glinted dangerously, and the wyrm inched his nails a little closer. “Thank you for your hospitality,” he stated.

The shaman only leaned back, its staff relaxed in its grip. “Ah, so eager to leave. As you were then, ohohoho!”

The White Wyrm set off, his puzzled knights following without a word.


	8. The Pilgrim's Way

It was the humidity that reached him first—warmth followed closely by the chitterings of small creatures and gentle yield of the moss underfoot. Soft hisses escaped from acid the three traveled over, and the luminance of green pervaded every hint of life. There was an aura of peace here—of kindness and stagnation. The area was as vivid as a painting come to life, a last breath before the hush of a god seeking to rest. 

Perhaps it was the curse of foresight that led to him viewing it in this way. After all, in the eyes of his escort, the domain of leaf and acid was full of life, only set to grow ever more lush and vibrant. He would not be surprised if green motes of dream would find themselves in the mind of these two later on, such was the power of the being currently at its peak. But despite it all, the White King could not see this ruler as a threat to his kingdom. Though the specifics were unclear, a feeling deep within his bones settled all vexation. The feeling borne from countless experiences listening to domains rise and fall. The higher being here was not one to fight. Neither through tooth or nail, anger or soul. Instead, it only watched. And soon enough through this indolence, it would witness its own fall.

Nevertheless, the king carried on. Almost casually, he approached a bouncing mosskin as to avoid any perception of a threat. The moss knights watched carefully from their camouflaged heaps. He needed them to be cooperative.

The green child froze as he approached. “May the leaves never wilt, little one. Might I speak to your ruler?”

The mosskin settled at his gentle tone, staring at his light openly. It nodded, “Follow me.” So obedient with such faith in its own light. Doubtless a created species—the Pale King was almost jealous.

So through the undergrowth they crept, dodging lesser forms and witnessing all that the land had to offer. Of all the areas he had seen, it was no wonder this one had caught the Root’s eye. It teemed with life, the faithful around every corner. The wyrm would be lying if he didn’t admit to wanting some of it for himself. All of it to himself. His light shone brighter at the prospect of all this territory, body and mind alike.

It hadn’t taken long before the four reached the shores of a giant lake, bigger than that of which spawned Monomon. Green children of all sorts lined the acid’s edge, standing and praying, worshipping that which laid within. A crowd stood around a building, presumably of worship, and the mosskin quickly left with a final word of “wait here”. 

An old knight came to them momentarily, a beaten satchel within his arm and a shining nail in hand. He held them loose, as if they meant nothing. But held they were, nonetheless.

“Hello sir, may your life grow everlasting.”

“Thank you, noble knight. What is this place? And who is it that rules these lands? I wish to speak to it.”

“She is the great Unn, sir. Through moss and leaf and dream she cast these caverns so. By her will, our leaves will never wilt.”

“Ah, forgive my transgressions. Are you the chieftain of this society by any chance?”

“For what purpose do you ask?”

“Simply to strike a deal and ask permission, as all who wish for mutual prosperity do.”

“And this deal?”

The Pale King stepped forward, lowering his voice yet flaring his light, “I believe that is a question meant to be asked by one of my caste. Bring me to Unn. Now.”

The moss knight tightened his grip on the nail, yet the wyrm’s own knights did the same. Awed they may have been by the green caverns, those who followed him still chose him over all others. They would die before he was given a single scratch if he let them. The old knight saw this, and lowered his nail. Even he could not deny the slaughter if he dared cross the Pale King. Reluctantly, he held up the satchel. 

“Fruits,” he said, “blessings for those who must wade through the acid. There are only two—“

“Give them both to my knights, even if I will be speaking to it alone,” the Pale King said, “I have no need for such paltry magic.” He turned to his escort, both tense at the prospect of letting him out of their sight. The king was surprised to find himself debating the reason. Though they may have been worried for his safety, it seemed that the prospect of Captain Ovin’s punishment concerned them too. He had to hold back a laugh at the revelation. “You two, take the fruits and stand guard. I will be back before you even realize.”

And with those words, the White Wyrm sped off across the lake, ready to meet the Green Mother.

\----------------

“Hidden hearts and hidden minds, the extent of your power is vast. The path that which your children walk grows long, yet your weariness even longer. How long do you intend to continue this farce?” said the Pale King.

Unn rose out of the acid, peering at his face. _Such hostile words, yet you claim no challenge. What is it that you seek bright wyrm? Like the others of this land, we need not compete. I have heard what you said to my knight after all. What is this mutual prosperity you claim?_

At her words the king allowed himself to relax at her countenance. An amiable higher being was rare to encounter, even rarer one willing to speak. He lowered himself as to cease his flight, to speak on the same level. “My apologies, it is rare to find one as genial as you. As for mutual prosperity, I will simply ask for something easily departed with, if departed at all. Surely you have noticed the kingdom I have grown beneath your own.”

_I have. Many have come through my lands seeking it._

“And many more will. My compeer, a path is all I need. One through your lands to provide guidance to all pilgrims bound towards my own. Such an allowance would provide a multitude of bugs to view your wonders. And above all—“

_Will my children prosper? Every other promise is but bubbles in the acid. My sleep will be long, after all. Surely you can feel it._

The Pale King paused in his machinations. “Yes. They will be—you already know of the fading of your light?”

_With the arrival of others within our caste it is plain to see how my time has now passed. I have prospered since the lord of Deepnest rose and fell, witnessed the war between remembrance and regret, and watched as orders of bugs came and went. My power has been spread thin, and I am tired. I wish for nothing but my legacy’s protection._

“You speak as though you will die.”

_We are but higher beings, not so divorced from this mortal realm as to be exempt from death._

The Pale Wyrm quieted at her words once more. She was correct, of course. But such thoughts would only trouble those who were involved in much larger matters. If one was allowed to ruminate on it too long, only fatalism or paranoia awaited. Such a tone that Unn gave was one he was never able to understand. 

“I will consider this land as my own, with the green children as its subjects. They will be protected, from myself and other threats, if that is your wish.”

Unn nodded, _Such a dream of unity for the whole of Hallownest. Take care not to burn too bright Pale King, else your fading will ensure that nothing would be left._

“Is that this land’s name?” he asked.

 _I thought you knew_ , Unn replied, sinking quietly back into the depths of the acid. 

The wyrm flew back towards the three knights, startling them in the midst of an argument. They were all silent upon his arrival. 

“It is done,” he said, “all that is left is to outline the path.” Privately, his thoughts wandered to the origin of this journey. The information provided by his Root had been invaluable. Perhaps he should create her a gift to showcase his gratitude.

“And what of our end of the bargain?” asked the moss knight.

The wyrm struck quick, taking the knights nail only to transmute the metal into a purer form, much sharper than it ever was before. He handed it back to the knight regarding it with awed—yet suspicious—eyes. “As the highest rank, you shall spread the word. I will construct roads beside these caverns, but that which does not bear my mark will keep to the dream of Unn. May your path continue to grow.”

“May your leaves never wilt,” the green child replied. 

And to his own knights—“Let us away, for our expedition is done.” 

The King of Hallownest strode purposefully towards the heart of his kingdom.


	9. The Gift

With the pitter-patter of raindrops neverending, the Pale King’s people milled about the city. Chatter filled the air. Shouts and footsteps, dancing and music within the cobblestone streets! Merchants shouted their wares as others passed by. Children running through, thieves and guards in an endless chase, and above it all the travelers who came to witness its beauty for the first time. The city was alive. Though incomplete, its towering spires drove into the very roof of the world, carved from stalagmites and pillars that so dotted the drizzling caverns before. Nooks and nests were sculpted en masse within the buildings themselves, already filled faster than they could be built. Distinct hollows were deepened, eventually transformed into wandering labyrinths and halls to reflect the majesty of the tallest spires—the number of which grew by the day. Additionally, gentle rivers and streams flowed in the bottom of this new world, a susurrus so omnipresent along with the quiet rain that no subject would ever have to endure the loneliness of pure silence if they so wished. 

The city was growing, and though only a few areas were as vivacious as the one above, the Pale King was pleased. This glimpse into the future kingdom proved educational—and above all, inspiring. 

The king hurriedly absconded to the castle below. There was no need for the populace to realize he had visited. It would have only corrupted the data of which he needed to determine their wellbeing. Nevertheless, a glimpse was all he needed at the present. Perhaps he could construct a device to facilitate the journey or collection next time.

With his study now complete from the White Palace’s construction, the wyrm now enjoyed a significant increase in privacy and focus. No longer would he be distracted by the footsteps and noises of builderbugs, knights, and attendants just outside his door. Rather, there was a quiet stillness held within the ground that allowed for a purer focus. Here, there were no shadows, no taint. Pure and pale constructions already littered the area. Several weapon ideas were showcased in the air, hung only by a glimmering line of suspended raindrops caught on a thread. Seals were drawn everywhere, some experimental and some practical. Even the odd plant or shell was present. The rest of the palace still only had the first two floors created, all else unfurnished and empty. Demanding that this room take priority over all others was one of the greatest decisions he had ever made.

Idly, he set a metal disk spinning. What project needed work today? Perhaps experimenting with teeth on the high-velocity disks? Or designing more architecture for the palace? Or for the crossroads far above? Not to mention refining the Pilgrim’s Way—his plans had only just been completed after months of negotiation and designing. It could stand for one more revision.

However, his gaze eventually slid to a half-cracked sphere leaking soul by the mote. Ah. Right. The gift. 

It had been failure after failure, with even slighter progress per hour than what it had taken to create Monomon. An experiment that was still ongoing, he might add. Nevertheless, the guilt for improperly expressed gratitude nudged at him, and with a sigh, the Pale Wyrm repaired the glass sphere. 

This would take some time.

\----------------

It was during one of his visits to the Pilgrim’s Way that the Pale King was nearly accosted by one of his own subjects.

“My king!” he yelled, “how fares the City? Your studies and art?” The king paused as he allowed the bug to catch up, even through his own annoyance. What train of thought he had before was gone, just before a breakthrough.

“Just fine, thank you. But such familiarity breeds nothing but disrespect. Have you not any sense to declare yourself? What if I had thought you an enemy? What if the task I had been set upon was urgent and delicate? Contain yourself next time, and approach quietly, else I shall be forced to make of you an example.”

“Apologies, my king, but I hold words you must hear. I do not know for how long I will be able to stay either since the beasts of Deepnest are ignorant of me yet.”

“Deepnest?” The king gave his subject a second look. The mask he wore and the shell he held—an idol lay strapped to his side, pale and soft in its carvings, an apology to the receiver. 

Ah. So he was one of the broken. Yet the ferocity in his determination lent to the opposite idea. And Deepnest? This was a strange bug indeed.

“What have you learnt of Deepnest? No common bug should know much about it.”

“I know very little, my king, but I have learned enough. The Weavers, they have been having a lean year. Hunters have come back with little to no food as the elders chatter among themselves, and the burrowers and dirt carvers have been breeding less and less every year. The spiders have been forced to cull more of every clutch, and their queen is not pleased with this development.”

She blames you.”

The Pale King dipped his head at this statement. With the increasing reports of hunt attempts, he had thought as much. Though what he once saw only as a testing of the boundaries seemed to be a much more desperate venture than originally thought. It was not uncommon to hear of a people that culled their hatchlings—particularly if that people took pride in their strength—but that was always an action with a set purpose in mind. To be forced to deviate from that traditional purpose in an effort to stave off starvation… Well, it was a humiliation to say in the least. Perhaps he could use this.

But then the king’s caught his bug’s form once more, noticing a hole in this countenance. “Courageous warrior,” he stated, “though you must be one for entering and spying on Deepnest, I cannot find a nail or weapon on your person. Are you not a knight? Or perhaps you prefer to fight with your own claws and shell.”

His subject replied, “Oh, I am not a knight, sire. I cannot fight. But though my strength is incapable of martial defense, I could not forget what the monsters had taken from us. I had to spy where I could.”

Pride grew within him once more. Who else could say they had subjects as courageous and clever as this? One so loyal yet industrious, even a factor he had not even thought of had been addressed. “Not all strength is found within the flesh,” the king replied. “Kneel, for the moment you rise, you shall be counted among my honored. I am proud, my watcher, thank you.”

The bug nearly fell to his knees at the statement, “M-my king, I scarcely deserve such an honor. That which I have done was only a duty few know, much less able to do—“

“And you have done it nonetheless. Again, you have my gratitude. However, you must take care not to fall remiss in these self-appointed duties, as you are now a shell that protects Hallownest from the Beasts. Now, any last information? I must return to my own after all.”

“Of course your majesty, of course! One final warning from what I have divined so far. They seem to have plans of sending their own missive to you—though of war or of talk I know naught. I am sorry I do not know more.”

“What you have told me is already more than enough. Please, dear watcher, rise now. And get some rest before you embark again, it do none of us well if you fall to exhaustion during your missions.”

\----------------

The petals grew and grew, but the moment he lost focus on them they wilted, leaving cracks in the glass where their roots had dug in deep.

The Pale King sighed as he threw this one away. Making the glass spheres was no problem—simply another elegant and dutiful mineral to reform. Though he normally enjoyed glass and metalwork, he had no idea what possessed him to attempt this monstrosity of an amalgamation. A glass flower just couldn’t do, he just couldn’t have settled for a simple lumafly lamp. 

And yet, as he peered into his idea only partially realized, he couldn’t help but imagine the Lady’s voice as she beheld the gift. A glass flower would strike her as pretty, perhaps. Same as the lumafly lamp, at most, it would be a passing amusement. What he was attempting, however—that would truly bring a light to her eyes. Maybe then she could experience the wonder he had always been speaking to her of. Maybe then she would feel as if she were the one who discovered rather than sat idly, waiting for someone else’s excitement.

He wondered about her viewpoint on the stories he would bring this time. Maybe with her, he could finally reach a breakthrough on Deepnest. Maybe with her, he could figure out what to do with Monomon.

\----------------

The acid lake, with its neverending stings and bubbles, had only grown more lively as time went on. The creatures of soft cores and mindless wandering seem to have separated themselves into a group of the experimented versus the group untouched. They presided over an entire section of the shore along with the lake, and in the center of it all, the masked one had grown.

With whispers and light, he compelled her over, wishing to log her progress. Already, her appendages had grown—tentacles, he believed they were called? Such a far distant memory, that one—and her masked core had separated further from the rest of her body. The Pale King had difficulty discerning whether this was done for protection of the core, pride of the mask, or imitation of passing bugs such as the mantises or whatever lived in their original land. Nevertheless, it was a unique development among the others. 

Her mask shone against the gentle greens and purples of this area’s atmosphere. She would still need some protection to come.

Almost patiently, she floated in front of him, still and gently coaxing the others away as the Pale King renewed the seal around her. Past the intense concentration, he noticed as she seemed to study him as he studied her. It was almost amusing, in a way. He supposed with a mind as young as hers it was only a natural for it to—

“Kinglight. Dreamlight. Giver of thought. I recognize you. You have the same face as I, Monomon.”

The king nearly stopped the spell right there. A bite of amusement arose in his chest. Though speaking, still truly a child. 

“Not a face, Monomon. Mine is a face shown only while expending great power. Yours is a mask begotten by I. I would hope that you would recognize me.”

“Kinglight, what is it that you write with the soul of the world, in the air before me?”

“It is a spell, little curious one. For magic to stay once spoken, it must be locked into this world—whether through image, mind, or will, each has its own purpose and effects.”

“And these effects? Why must it stay locked anyhow? What even is magic, and why is it that I stand entangled in a spell at the present moment?”

“Patience dear student, all will be answered in time.”

He wrote journal after journal to give to her as soon as she learnt how to read. He warned her of their degradation in the acid and she wrote a new logographic system within the acid itself as a response.

So much potential. And though he would never tell anyone other than the Pale Root, he was terrified of putting it all to waste.

\----------------

The glass cracked extra violently, leaving thick, dark cracks on that which had shattered. So damaged, it barely seemed to reflect light in the wake of his own. Such a musing drew his mind to the deeper parts of the land. That which he turned his back on: the void and the abyss.

He still remembered Unn’s words of the war between remembrance and regret. And though it was clear he had yet to meet the former, the latter seemed to have lost in that ancient conflict. But who were these people that so built the roads and foundation to the White Palace? The tunnel of spikes, the strange stones of seeming living will—perhaps the abyss was not quite as boring as he once thought.

And yet…the substance was black as all that was left behind, of memories long since past and rotted. A sticky tar befitting that regret which it mimicked, yet as viscous and invasive as oil. It was nothing in the face of the future’s light, and though its power opposed his own, there was no conflict to be had in something so easily ignored.

The Pale King supposed that this newfound interest was in his burgeoning familiarity with its aspect. The ones he had sacrificed… but no. With eyes turned towards the future of the kingdom, he regretted nothing. It was necessary, after all. And the kingdom would flourish because of it.

\----------------

The Pale Wyrm could not resist his curiosity still, avoiding his retainers as he escaped to explore the rest of the ancient basin.

Past the White Palace and the servant’s path to it, everything was quiet. Rarely was there a sound in the still air, save for the occasional creak of the creepers in their endless patrol. Rocks and pillars, all seemed built yet untouched by bug hands. Was it sorcery that shaped them? Or something completely different?

Footsteps, distant enough to be silent yet close enough to feel through the rock below. Both cadences felt foreign to his memories, strangers to his influence.

The Pale King plotted their path, the rhythm of each distinct enough so that he was able to tell that there were two, and placed himself to intersect with it. A “chance meeting” so to speak. Just who were these foreigners so deep within his kingdom?

_Scarlet eyes and a jagged smile._

_A dance, an act, of flame and shadow’s art. The dead rise below in countless numbers and the dark encompasses all above. Essence lifts the ghosts from their graves, but—_

_(It is not to be, it is not to be)._

_A pale thorn, serene and cunning—obscured in all but strength. It takes to the City’s tears._

_A delicate nail crumbles into dust, the lover’s last cry living on in a sacrificial V̴̢̻͛͐̆̎̈̅̕͝ě̵̞̻̻̮͐̇s̶̩͔̰͖̦̝̬̞̈́s̶̢̰̺̲̼̝̩̋͊̓̈̈́̄̽͗̕͜͝e̵̯̊̄̈̓̕͝l̵͔̲͑̔̂̚͠ͅ._

_(Such a thing should never come to pass)_

_Crying. Joy and laughter, suffering and sadness. Life in all its trappings. Rain pours down the City of Tears. Warriors, poets, wanderers, and traders mill about under his faithful Eye._

_They are shining times indeed._

The sound of laughter.

Pure nails materialized in the Pale King’s hands, a halo of them called forth at the sudden appearance. And yet the Scarlet Flame only clapped at the display, voice grating at his hearing. “So a Pale being lays claim to this land long since harvested. And it bears quite an invitation to dance too! Sadly, a compact has not been written between us yet, fair worm. This kingdom was not one fallen so recently yet.”

The Pale King raised his nails to respond, but before he could, a gray blur shot past his vision. It was only with a flash of foresight that he was able to block the warrior’s swing, so fast was her strike. She leapt back in preparation of his counter, and easily parried as he sent two nails after her out of instinct. The warrior hefted her great nail once again ( _not delicate, not dust_ ), preparing for another strike before the Nightmare King’s mortal form stopped it.

“Ze’mer! He means no actual harm, it was simply a threat. I do believe we may have actually startled the worm.”

The warrior turned to him in response, “Nahlo Ne’mer, Che’ sees no difference in its danger. Better that it is destroyed, moina?”

“Irregardless, it would be quite rude to attack a land’s king—especially when found trespassing on it.”

 _There were no dead rising, no flame from which **he** could feed_—The Pale King dispersed the projectiles back into soul, rather choosing to regard the red being with disdain. “Quite,” he agreed, “Though if you truly are only here as a temporary measure, I suppose I may permit your sojourn.”

“I assure you, it truly is a temporary measure,” the v—the Scarlet Flame said. “My troupe lays dormant for the present, a fallen kingdom recently cleansed.” It is not to b- “However, these years between shows do grow ever so dull, so my caretaker here was kind enough to accompany me in this tour of old, forgotten and fallen kingdoms.” The ancient kingdom. He meant that of which once subsisted upon the darkness itself.

“A worthy mystery to uncover,” the wyrm replied. 

But before he could respond, the warrior interjected, “Me’hon, I am your caretaker no longer. Che’ has danced that final dance in nym’kingdom’s dying breath. Ne’mer’s eyes light with scarlet fire, awake and left to do as he pleases. Ull, I only follow as there is nothing left of Che’s home.”

A moment of relief as the Troupe Master blinked. “Ah yes, there is a secondary reason for this undertaking.” Leaning in, he whispered despite apparently being unable to lower his volume. “We have tried to welcome her into the troupe, what with that masterful act of which you have only seen a taste of, but she still refuses. And considering her help and participation in my perpetuation, a certain obligation to find her one such ‘home’ has made itself apparent. I am Grimm, by the way. Perhaps there is a certain outcome that benefits both of us in this chance endeavor?”

“There is a possibility. However, what makes the Nightmare’s spawn believe such things about this bug?”

“Surely you witness the pale light emanating from her satchel? Such familiarity breeds comfort, especially when one mourns such as her. Nevertheless, there is much about this kingdom I wish to see, and I still feel as though our paths will one day cross again.”

The Pale King felt his shoulders tense at the thought. “Unfortunately, I do as well.” Finally, he turned to the warrior. “Ze’mer, is it? You truly are a skilled warrior, and if you ever require a place to rest, my kingdom is open to all. Even those who wish to someday leave.”

“Moina, I will think on it. Wouldst Le’mer offer a garden if Che’s so requests?”

“If you truly desire it, simply claim where you wish to live.”

“Ai. We will see.”

And the Pale King watched as they left, even after their forms long since faded into silence.

—————————  
Prescience meant nothing. And yet fate arose immutable from the presences he felt, the sounds he heard, the visions he was now able to see. Inborn knowledge of the past, present, and future sang from within his mind, a gift only few were unfortunate enough to endure. 

What use was foresight when all that he understood was only a fraction of what he was shown? What use was fate when it’s very nature was inevitable? What use was a promise when the volition to break it was nonexistent?

Through ages, the White Wyrm has persisted. Over years and years of glimpses into a chosen kingdom, of countless decades searching in vain, it was only after he had given up that the world decided to lock into place, to fulfill what claims fate had created. It was only after deciding to fall and create that the knowledge he was given emerged clear from its fog. The light and the wonders he had seen… Admittedly the Pale King had grown all the wiser for it.

But this dream upon meeting those two— the clearest in ages… Though it cried catastrophe and ruin, such a thing must have been an echo of the past. The darkness he lived so close to must have tainted it somehow. It would be naive to claim that living so close would have no effect after all. This ancient kingdom, long since dead, may still be calling for someone to mourn it. That was the only explanation. Otherwise…

No. The past, along with its regret, was always better left forgotten. How else could those of the present and future prosper? Let not the weight of the past burden him or his people. Let it fall away, like ash from a corpse, an egg from its hatchling.

The gift drew his eye, almost complete. Let not the worries of the future taint his magic, introduce weakness into the orb’s design. May this flower to grow out of the peace of his mind, nourished by gratitude and admiration.

Let it all fall away. Let all of it fall.

—————————

The fallen bodies lay buried now, covered beneath a blanket of ash like snow. The husk from which he discovered that first nail—it was gone now, enveloped by kingdom and corpse, known only to him.

But time refused to still. 

Even as the Pale King walked, reminiscing, the broken bodies of the alive and dead fell from a chamber far above. Each landed with a sickening crunch, only a few living long enough to reach up and out, to the origin of their fall.

To say the king was curious would be an understatement. So, pilgrimage to his old form abandoned, the wyrm made his way to the source of fading dreams. 

It was a filthy place overall. Black mold lined the corners and every crevice, dried hemolymph splattered wherever a set of footsteps led. Servants and prisoners alike were chained to the ceiling, either struggling weakly or singing their devotion to the fight. To the Colosseum. 

It was a simple matter to find a young warrior to interview. Though the pit was littered with fools seemingly born or taken in by this place, a few foreigners sat resting on the bench. Each had a sharp glint to their minds, a taste for glory and a strong will present in each. None others would traverse the wasteland only to die in a place such as this. Their hubris stank like iron’s rust. 

He spent only a moment thereafter speaking with the warriors, cataloging the presence of a spring and a darkened chamber along with countless cages and masks. Immediately after, the Pale King strode the arena floor to find the insect overseer. 

A battle was still taking place, the slow stilling of bodies and soul spilling into the air left a savage taste in his mouth. Better that he get this meeting over with quickly.

His light shone brighter than all that attempted to near him. It was a quick word—a burst of power that ceased all movement, those allowed to live in the stands and those killed below. The “Lord Fool”, as he was so called, slouched in his throne, but the Pale King stood with pride as all activity around them came to a halt.

A pause, so that his soon-to-be subjects may know his image.

He spoke softly, as the wind would fell a tree. “A fight, a fall, and the fading of a long-held dream. Is this all that awaits those who fall under your grasp? Before the crowds gather to laugh at your demise, I bid you declare yourself to me so that I may understand this place. Hurry, lest I eradicate it for profaning the grounds of Hallownest any longer.”

And the Lord Fool laughed, “A prattling shrimp! Fight or fall, you will follow us fools to dreams and glory. All will eventually.” It directed its voice to the gatekeepers hanging listlessly in chains, “Begin the next trial, let us see this White thing’s strength!”

Annoyance bit at the Pale King’s countenance, spite driving him to spear all five enemies with nary a movement, the crowd cheering and laughing wildly at their demise. “Perhaps you had not understood me? As ruler of these lands, the very being whose sanctifying corpse rests below, I command you to explain this act and to cease this idiotic drivel!”

“King of Hallownest, Queen of Dreams, Lord of the Deep, what do your titles matter when all are fools? Dance now, dance! There is no greater thing to be now, dance!”

Spikes shot up from below his feet, lengths changing at every section. It forced him to step aside, but the metal singing below warned him well before they even began to rise. Nevertheless, another coal singed his pride as he was forced to move at the fool’s behest, even if hovering.

“Your broken mind deceives you if this is what you truly believe. What use is laughter without joy? Glory without honors?” He said, turning to address the crowd. “Come away from this place, and witness life at its fullest. Devote yourself to me, and find true freedom in understanding and life!”

But the Colosseum went dark, and all seemed to freeze. The Lord Fool lifted its head of its hands to look directly at the king; “Take my followers if you wish, the Bright Moth will attempt this too. But soon enough, when all are dead and fallen, you will see that we are all fools.”

Its face ran deep with rot, mold running down that ancient mask. It fell down into the slouch it held before, silent and unmoving now. Or had it truly ever moved? Perhaps it was a dream, not entirely divorced from the waking world.

The Pale King narrowed his eyes at the corpse and cut down the chains of the nearest servants to the exit, the only ones quiet and wide-eyed.

“Follow if you wish,” he said, “this place carries naught but madness and ill omens.”

In the end, only three had left the Colosseum of Fools.

\----------------  
It whispered with power, spoke of dreams of light and life. It promised growth, it was to be a blessing to whoever received it.

Its beauty shone like a single pale root. And encased in a glass sphere, it’s fragility necessitated a careful hand. The gift was complete.

_Her blue eyes opened—_

It is done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few bits of explanation here:
> 
> The part with Monomon and the Pale King's face is essentially how I figure his mask changes when casting a spell. Essentially, like how the knight changes to void form with the upgraded spells, the Pale King looks like the soul totems in the white palace. It gives an extra layer of depth as to why the dreamer statues in the City of Tears all have Monomon's mask, plus why all the king's idols have that pattern instead of his regular two eyes. 
> 
> Also, I just went wild with the characterization of Lord Fool here. I picture that corpse as growing younger and younger as the ages pass, only to gasp alive at the end of time, to laugh as all worlds' end. Knowledge of the future comes from living backward in time here instead of foresight. 
> 
> Finally, I know a lot of writers tend to favor the idea of prescience being a range of possibilities revealed, but the idea and exploration of known fate was just too interesting to pass up. These visions are set in stone, all that matters is the Pale King's interpretation and/or denial of it.


	10. Messages

A whisper of smoke. The soft aching of a hole. The first generation passed like a droplet sliding into a sea—with nary a ripple and neither a sound. He only felt—and barely realized—the echos of a mind long since gone. A bit of power, returned but ever so slightly changed, tinted by the one who beheld the light. 

It was a gasp he could never take. A final goodbye. And then they were gone.

No violent event had occurred between the first and the last. None had occurred during. It was simply the passage of time that signaled their departure as old age began to take, and take, and take, and take. Sometimes he noticed. Sometimes he didn’t. But before he knew it, the first generation had left, and the first ones who only knew him were born.

How strange the world works: that which is new demands the place of the old. He knew the nature of bugs. He remembered how fleeting each life was. What he couldn’t understand was why he couldn’t see each child as a replacement for the ones that left. Even when the world did. 

They just...still had so much more to discover. To see. To witness the fruits of their labor. The beauty from which their hard work wrought from stone and metal. The Pale King supposed that their children would enjoy such wonders now. It was just that those who left… would not. Could not. 

If only time had stayed its hand for just a little while longer.

With a heavy heart the Pale King exited his chambers, determined to remember the joys of his kingdom before forgetting in grief. Next to him, the gift shimmered in pearlescent light.

He knew exactly where to find a balm to his grief, a spark to happiness.

He wrote a note to his retainers to inform them of his absence and deftly wove through the sections of construction and traps they had set up. He had to admit, these bugs were getting cleverer by the day. Guards and the faithful lined the doorways and unfinished scaffolding, hoping to catch a glimpse of their ever elusive king. And it was—dare he say it—almost fun to solve this ever changing puzzle of unnoticed escape. That was to say, it wasn’t as if the king allowed himself to be imprisoned by his own subjects. Rather, he knew the delays of their prostration and insistence on accompanying him would be not only to everyone’s detriment, but it would also irk him the more he attempted to move on. Really, it was better this way, as the wyrm thought. It was simply a matter of annoyance; amusement had no place in this matter. 

A guard made a turn inconsistent with what she had been doing for the last week—he was fairly sure she caught a glimpse as he flew behind cover. It was no fear of interaction either, even if conversation with others could sometimes be as exhausting and inane as burrowing through granite. Not at all.

It was strange how the Pale Lady seemed to be an exception to that. 

The king shook his head. There was a section of scaffolding, right ahead. The Pale Wyrm held a small satchel carrying the sphere he was set to deliver. A short flight, then he was off, even with his light standing out against the ancient basin’s darkness. The footsteps of five other bugs, running hurriedly through the palace. So they found the note it seemed. 

The Pale King wondered if he should one day just write a note of the like and simply hide instead of leave—observe what his subjects do when they think him gone. Ah, but a greater calling awaited. Even against experimentation.

There was a yell. A retainer had spotted him. And in a moment—

He arrived at the White Lady’s dwelling at no time at all. She must have noticed his elevated energy immediately.

“Having fun, my dear wyrm?”

“Hardly,” he replied, inwardly urging his heartbeat to slow to a normal pace. “It is simply the prospect of what I must show you today that quickens my heart.”

The Pale Lady hummed, “Though I sense no lie, there yet a tune of secrecy behind your words. And a small note of denial.”

“I deny noth—“

“Playing with your subjects again, White King?” 

Whatever statement that begun had died in his throat. “Perhaps. But!” He interjected, “There is another factor you have failed to account for. Perhaps I simply just admire being in your presence.”

“And perhaps it is merely my attention that you so desire. I have never known you to be quiet for long?” 

“My Root, your very nature grounds my mind where it would otherwise fly off into worlds unknown. How could I fall into silence with such attention offered, such opportunities to learn?”

“Adulator,” she said, mirth in her voice.  
“What honey you’ve bathed your words in. But there is an additional reason for this consultation, is there not?”

“Consultation? My Root, though I equally admire your wisdom, I am here not to—”

“To speak aloud your troubles? Dear wyrm, with all your past visits and counting, I would be hard-pressed to ignore these patterns.”

He was silent for a moment. “Does this annoy you?”

And her shining eyes widened, “No, of course not! On the contrary, these reflections help serve to increase my understanding of you and what I otherwise could not.” She looked away, “And with such little company available, it is an... agreeable feeling to be listened to. As an equal.”

The Pale King chuckled at this admittance, his own worry quickly soothed. “An equal? Pale Root, you are the one who keeps grounded as the Earth tears itself apart. You, the one who spreads her seeds and Soul and power to every land and life touched. You who sees all through the essence of what is otherwise unseen. And you, though divorced from the wondrous creations of metal, shell, and glass, taught me beauty in the organic forms around us? White Lady, if anything, I look up to you.”

And after a moment, there came a gentle snicker from her form. “You only say that because of your height.”

And what little stream deepened into a river. Her laughter and joy, a music worthy of his enthrallment sounded throughout the room. Was her happiness not the most fascinating thing? Whether in silence or banter, his Root never ceased to mesmerize him. 

“Let’s take a walk.” 

The words had spilled out of his head before he had even registered them. It seemed to fill the White Lady with confusion. “A… walk?” She lilted, “And leave this alcove?”

“Ah, perhaps not!” He hurried. “It is just—I had supposed that—would you—“

She shook her head. “Dear wyrm, I had never seen you at such a loss for words before! Fear not, I am not offended. Merely curious, for you have never proposed such an idea before.”

“It is just that, well, throughout our meetings and conversations, I have always offered you tales of my ‘adventures’ and conundrums. These were once in exchange for answers, as you are well aware, but as time went on they were for your reactions and perspective instead. But they were always offered without your urging, though I have noticed your admiration for the sights invisible to your roots. Perhaps on a walk, I may help you to see? Or at the very least, a different setting may bring additional revelations to this enthralled mind.”

“Then I supposeI must accept. But do not think that I haven't noticed how you still have not answered my first question.”

“Oh, how the times change,” he muttered, drawing closer still. “Let us embark—there is something I wish to show you.”

His proffered hand was taken, and the lady uprooted herself with barely an effort. “Then what is it I will see, oh _Old One_?”

“You will understand soon enough, dear _Counterpart_.” And with each pale presence strengthening the other, it wasn't long before all was bathed in the light of their happiness.

\-----------

_What shining jewels once have bloomed, for now they wilt and cloud over. What use is loneliness with the company of corpses at one’s side? Come flood and moss—let none weep nor sigh, but instead wait until the end of time._

_Until she is joined with you again._

\-----------

“...is hardly a question of thought but rather of dreams, don't you think?”

“With such strange origins as hers, I cannot tell. I suppose you are right—the child already possesses great capacity in thought—but what her of identity and power? I fear her fragility will be her undoing.”

“As your own observations have proven, she is different from the other creatures, empowered by the mask gifted. Had she lacked essence, the soul would not have held, and what priestess you have crafted would have never called forth a name.”

“A name, what may be nothing more than a vestige of the land from which they came. Monomon. What a strange importance these bugs place on nonsense titles.”

“An importance you seem to encourage. Do you not remember each one you discern? In fact, if I remember correctly, you would correct me every time I called one the wrong name. Quite adamantly too. ”

The Pale King shook his head, “How could I not? Each moniker is a proof of a successful mind, an individual identity for each devoted. Just because a meaningful selection of epithets would be more sensible does not mean I would deny my subjects this freedom.”

“It is true, however, that what may seem meaningless is simply a shadow of reality, cast by perspective. Through observation, I have determined this: Whether a reflection of origin or dreams, I do not think it possible for a name to mean nothing.”

“A subject of mine once named herself ‘Ba’ because that was the first sound she made. No descriptions. No hopes. Only ‘Ba!’. Ba!”

The White Root laughed, “My point is proven still, the name is a reminder of a memory, even when seemingly thoughtless.”

“Kindly cease your wisdom for a moment, dear Root. I may treasure it but any more and I shall name myself ‘Gorb’ from your own encouragement ” the Pale King replied, pausing their walk before the entrance to his city. It was a half-built bridge of steel, bare and standing as if waiting for something. Someone.

“‘Gorb’? Were you not haunted by a vision surrounding that name for months?”

“Dear Root, if you care for me at all, never speak of that nightmare again. Also, let my titles stay as my name. The meaning will be understandable to all, including myself.” When the Pale King saw that she had grown comfortably still, he continued. “But nevermind that now,” he said, drawing the gift from his robes, “I had never properly thanked you for your assistance and company. Let us rectify that.”

The gift was a flower imbued with soul, it’s like never before seen. Grown from a sample of Greenpath’s land and accompanied by lumaflies native to the Crossroads, it held a special essence within its form. The verdant green petals seemed to glitter against the glowing white anthers, its stamen fiercely declaring their presence. The leaves cradling it were deceptively fragile. Finally, a glass sphere encased the work, an attempt to mimic the seed he had once crushed. Yet truly, it wasn’t until the White Lady accepted the flower that the glass dissipated its confused-white fog, and that the flower finally bloomed.

There was a moment of silence between them. The flower seemed to come alive, almost breathing at the White Root’s touch. And the Pale King? His heart beat fast, though he had nothing to say. Nothing came to mind.

But it felt like she understood everything.

\-----------

It came creeping out of the shadows, steps as delicate as its silk. Its dress was strange; this was not a hunter. “A moment of your time,” the weaver asked, “the queen desires an audience.”

The Pale King summoned a nail at the sound of it. “Pathetic spiders, I care not for your petty grabs for power. Your ‘queen’ is no queen, for I am the sole monarch. Accept that, then maybe the Beast will have her talk.”

“Pale king, white thing, the dead ones’ last offspring—you think yourself powerful, but you are weak. You will fall like the beings before you, but for now you are given a chance to speak. Your foresight is not as omniscient as you think.”

Rage torrented through his head, his hands; “Enough with your songs and rhymes! I know how desperate you truly are. Starvation, savagery, and a culture denying your past lord? Trade with us! Become my citizens! Accept my rule! That is all you need, with freedom gained rather than lost. Why continue to resist?”

“Once beholden to one, we learnt and became beholden to none. And so it shall stay till all else will fade. The hunt demands strength, the silk demands artistry. What you offer is weakness and softness... Her words are clearer than mine, you will see.”

He flung a halo of nails at the weaver, snapping every one of its threads but one. It hung, swaying easily despite its large frame. There wasn’t even a flinch. How strange. How could a lower being command such faith? Nevertheless, he had to remove himself from the situation. This was the first time an opportunity to witness the source of all his worries arose. Insult or not, he had to understand. Even if the claims offered were foolish to the most asinine degree.

“Hallownest may be home to the strong, but I am a kind ruler. Despite your insults, I will humor this show for the _**Beast**_. When and where shall we meet?”

“We devout will escort you from your City’s Edge. However, you must expect that we will protect ourselves from whomever may desire revenge.”

Devout to what, exactly? As if faith in the Beast would grant them true power. “I will notify the Mantis Lords to let you through.”

“No need,” it replied. “For Herrah, for Brood, for the strands that keep us strong, leave in grace and be blessed all day long.” Swiftly, it skittered away into the shadows, disappearing as quick as a fall.

_Dances atop strings of silk. Quaking from a creature burrowing just beneath. Teeth and blood and claws and needles—an invasion was enacted, and there were no lances to stop it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How tf do you write romance.
> 
> Next chapter (if I ever get around to it), you'll finally know why Herrah is called The Beast.


End file.
